03-09-2015, 10:30 AM
The Shrine by Ben Kane
This is a prelude to the new book, Eagles at War, which comes out in just over a month...
Mogontiacum, Germania, spring 6 BC
It was a fine day in the Roman province of Gallia Belgica. The scudding clouds overhead held little threat of rain, and regular intervals of warm sunshine were enough proof that winter had gone for another year. Outside the town of Mogontiacum, the road was packed with hundreds of legionaries and civilians, come to watch the annual foot race that formed part of the celebrations commemorating the tragic death three years previously of Drusus, beloved general of the local legions and stepson of the emperor Augustus.
The contest would end at Drusus’ tall, marble-faced memorial. A cluster of high-ranking officers and civic officials watched there, from the comfort of a wooden stand that had been erected for the occasion. Lucius Cominius Tullus, a solid soldier with close cut brown hair and a long jaw, had done well to secure a spot which afforded views right up to the monument. He had been passing through Mogontiacum the day before, and it had seemed a fine plan to stay for the race, which was famous far and wide.
Tullus was happy to linger because he was in no particular rush to finish his journey to Vetera, some two hundred miles down the River Rhenus. He needed a little time to think. His recent promotion from optio to centurion had meant leaving the ‘Rapax’ Twenty First Legion, the unit which he’d joined as a stripling youth more than ten years before. It was a massive step – a positive one, to be sure, but one that needed to sink in. His future now lay with the Eighteenth Legion, in Vetera. If he kept his nose clean, led his men well and continued to distinguish himself in battle, he stood a decent chance of becoming a senior centurion, commanding a cohort, before the end of his career. A grin split his face. It was even possible that he could ascend to the dizzying heights of primus pilus, the highest ranking centurion of the legion.
The loud conversations of those around him brought Tullus back to the present, and the race, which would end soon. Soldiers from every legion stationed on the Rhenus and Danuvius rivers were taking part. It didn’t feel right to support men from the Eighteenth yet; until his journey ended, he hadn’t actually joined his new legion. His loyalties remained in Castra Regina, with the Rapax.
It had been the most natural thing in the world, therefore, to place his bets on soldiers from the Rapax. Tullus didn’t know Fusco and Justus, the two finest athletes in his old legion, but he knew of them. The twelve to one odds offered by local betmakers for either man to win the race had only added to the appeal of backing them. A sense of duty had made Tullus also place twenty denarii on the best of the Eighteenth’s runners, although the long odds made it unlikely that he would ever see a return.
Tullus let out a loud, luxurious belch, then another. The soldier in front of him turned with a truculent expression, but seeing the optio’s helmet tucked under Tullus’ arm, decided to keep his peace. In a jovial mood thanks to the wine he had consumed, Tullus affected not to have noticed the legionary’s aborted challenge, concentrating instead on the road before them. Narrow, paved, winding, and lined with tombs, it led right towards the large military camp and the town of Mogontiacum, and left to the settlement of Borbetomagus. At his back, adjacent to the River Rhenus, was the local amphitheatre, and on the other side of the road, some three hundred paces distant, was the grand monument that honoured Drusus.
‘The race is about five miles long, eh?’ asked Tullus of the legionary who had wheeled around.
‘That’s right, sir,’ came the penitent reply. ‘They start at the gates of the main camp, head south on this road to the small encampment, and back again, to Drusus’ monument. The first man to touch the inscription is the victor.’
‘Who won the first two races?’
The legionary’s chest puffed out. ‘The same man, sir. Liberalis, of the Germanica. With Fortuna’s help, he’ll be victorious again this year.’
‘Not if Helvius has anything to do with it,’ yelled a soldier on the other side of the road. ‘A-laudae! A-laudae! A-laudae!’
At once the pair and their companions exchanged a barrage of abuse.
Men from the local garrison – the First Germanica and the Fifth Alaudae legions – would have a big advantage over those from units further afield, thought Tullus. They would be familiar with the course, having trained on it as often as they wished. Entrants from the Rapax, his old unit, were only permitted to arrive at Mogontiacum a few days before the contest, and Tullus doubted that entrants from the other Rhenus legions were allowed to act any different.
‘Here they come,’ called a voice.
Cheering broke out among the spectators to the south, and everyone craned their necks to see. Second from the front, Tullus had a great view as the contestants sprinted around the last corner and into sight. Two men led the race, first a slight, black-haired legionary, and then a tall soldier with a ground-eating stride. They were separated by no more than five paces. Behind them came the rest, a pack of more than a dozen legionaries, elbowing and shoving at one another.
‘Come on, Liberalis, you can do it,’ roared the soldier who had spoken to Tullus. ‘Come on, the Germanica!’
Plenty of men nearby echoed his cry, while those on the opposite side of the road jeered and shouted, ‘Hel-vius! Hel-vius!’ or ‘A-laudae! A-laudae!’
Tullus felt a tinge of disappointment that either Liberalis or Helvius – both local soldiers – would take the victory. Although the figures in the main group were bunched too close to make any of them out, he wanted either Fusco or Justus, from the Rapax, to be near the front. Failing that, a legionary from the Eighteenth would do. There might yet be time for someone to catch the leaders before they reached Drusus’ monument.
His hopes were soon dashed. While the gap between Liberalis and Helvius narrowed as the pair hammered up the slope towards Tullus’ position, the rest of the runners fell back a little. The clamour from the crowd grew deafening, as hundreds of men roared at the top of their voices and stamped their nailed sandals on the ground. When the pair drew alongside Tullus, Liberalis was still in the lead, but only just. Arms pumping, eyes fixed on the finishing area, he pelted by. Helvius was right on his heels, but there was a glazed look in his eyes. Getting so close to Liberalis had taken its toll, thought Tullus. Helvius had used the last of his energy. Knowing when to use that was a crucial skill for any athlete, and it seemed that Helvius had misjudged his moment.
Sure enough, Liberalis’ lead began to increase. First it was three paces that he led his competitor, then six, and ten. Helvius pursued his rival up the hill with dogged courage, but it was clear that his attempt to win the race was over.
The soldiers around Tullus scented victory. ‘GERMAN-ICA! GERMAN-ICA! GERMAN-ICA!’ they shouted, drowning out the cries of those supporting Helvius.
The main body of runners pounded past. Tullus was pleased to spot Fusco and Justus together, and at the front. Fusco, a lithe figure, was leading, and Justus, a blocky man with thighs like small tree trunks, was tucked in right behind him. Like as not, thought Tullus, they’d been setting pace for one another since the start. They would do their legion proud, perhaps finishing in the top three.
Loud gasps – shouts of dismay from some, and of triumph from others – filled his ears, and Tullus glanced up the slope, to Liberalis and Helvius. To his surprise, Helvius was now ahead of Liberalis, who was struggling to his feet. He began to chase after Helvius, but it was clear he would not manage to catch his adversary.
‘What happened?’ cried Tullus.
‘He looked back at Helvius, and tripped on a loose paving stone,’ came the sour answer from the legionary in front.
‘Stupid bastard. He had the race won,’ commented a voice behind.
Every man in the main group of runners had realised that Liberalis’ misfortune had afforded them a last chance. The pack’s speed increased, each soldier desperate to catch the still flagging Helvius. They soon passed Liberalis, who was now limping badly.
Because Drusus’ monument lay some distance uphill, Tullus’ view of the runners was better than if the ground had been flat. His excitement rose as several soldiers sprinted ahead of the rest, closing fast on Helvius. To his frustration, he couldn’t make out individual men. Let one of them be from the Rapax, he prayed.
The din from the spectators at the finishing area rose to the heavens in the moments that followed. Figures darted around the monument in an effort to finish the race, and at least one fell. Two men closed in on the inscription before the rest, and the one that reached it first raised a fist in triumph. Trumpets blared to signify that the race was over, and the crowd went even wilder.
‘Who won? Who won?’ clamoured a hundred voices.
‘HEL-VIUS! HEL-VIUS! HEL-VIUS!’ shouted the legionaries on the opposite side of the road.
‘Whoreson,’ yelled the soldier in front of Tullus. ‘He fouled Liberalis somehow, or I’m no judge.’
Arguments began over who had done what, which legionaries were fittest and who the winner should be, and continued until the trumpets sounded a fanfare that drowned everyone’s voices out.
Tullus squinted as sunlight winked off gilded armour on the road in front of the monument. A senior officer was shepherding the victor forward. The trumpets’ sound died away, and an expectant hush fell.
‘Loyal soldiers of Rome, fine citizens of Mogontiacum,’ cried the officer, whose red sash revealed him to be a tribune. ‘We are here today to honour the shade of our beloved commander Drusus, whose loss we still grieve. He would be proud of the race that has just been run! Right to the end, it seemed that men from every legion on the Rhenus could snatch victory. However, one soldier touched Drusus’ inscription before the rest. That man is Fusco, of the Twenty-First Legion, the Rapax.’ With a flourish, he placed a wreath on Fusco’s head.
Further up the hill, a section of the crowd began chanting, ‘RA-PAX!’
However, the applause from the rest of the spectators was desultory – their comrades hadn’t won, and their wagers had been for nought. The next thing on their minds was more wine, or a woman, or both. This was a rest day for the local soldiery and they had to make the most of it.
‘Fusco did it!’ muttered Tullus, grinning at the thought of the winnings he’d collect. Six hundred denarii was a sizeable sum, enough to feed and water him like a tribune, never mind a centurion. The notion of buying a horse for the rest of his journey to Vetera was now a reality, rather than the fanciful wish it had been before.
‘You’re with the Rapax, sir?’ asked the legionary in front of him.
‘Aye.’ Tullus caught himself. ‘Well, I was, until recent days. I’ve been transferred, to the Eighteenth.’
The significance of this move wasn’t lost on the soldier, whose eyes widened. ‘Begging your pardon for my behaviour earlier, centurion, when you, you–’ His voice failed.
‘When I belched in your ear!’ Tullus said with a laugh. ‘It was a trifle rude, I’ll admit.’
‘Not at all, sir,’ protested the soldier, his flush worsening.
‘Peace,’ ordered Tullus. ‘Tell me, is there a decent watering hole near here? The places I’ve seen are worse than the basest establishments in Castra Regina.’
‘You could do worse than The Sheaf of Wheat, sir.’ The soldier pointed towards Mogontiacum. ‘Make for the centre of the town. There’s a staggered crossroads not far from the gate. You want the street that leads towards the river, and the temple of Magna Mater and Isis. Look out for the pair of water troughs decorated with fauns. It’s opposite them.’ His face split into a smile as he caught the silver coin that Tullus had flipped at him. ‘Thank you, sir!’
‘To help drown your sorrows. May Liberalis do better next year.’ Tullus strode off in the direction of the town. Once he had collected his winnings, he would visit the shrine of the two goddesses, which was famous throughout the region. Only then would he seek out The Sheaf of Wheat.
He had a strong feeling that it was going to be a good night.
***
Tullus adjusted the arms of his wool tunic at the point where they emerged from under his mail, and picked up his helmet. He had placed it on a shelf by the door of the shop as he’d entered. He put it on and tied the chin strap: it afforded no protection when held under one arm. Behind him, the betmaker groaned from under the wreckage of his desk.
Tullus cast him a jaundiced look. ‘Count yourself lucky that I only broke your nose, you thieving cocksucker. Did you really think you could run off without paying me what was mine?’
The betmaker had the wit not to reply.
In truth, thought Tullus, it had been a close run thing. If he had arrived a dozen heartbeats later, the betmaker would have finished locking his door and disappeared into the thronged streets. He knew from their earlier conversation that Tullus was only passing through Mogontiacum. A day or two of lying low, and he would have got away without paying out the six hundred denarii. The gods had been smiling on Tullus, though. The fool had had a beating to remember instead, and had surrendered the full monies due. Any sympathy Tullus might have felt for the man’s plight – the sum would beggar him, he had whined – had vanished at the sight of the glinting aurei in the strongbox that had been hidden under the floor. The gold coins weren’t that common still, yet the betmaker possessed scores of them. Nonetheless, Tullus had been careful to take only what was owed to him – twenty-four aurei.
With a final glance at the betmaker, to make sure he wasn’t thinking of planting a blade in his back, or trying to follow him, Tullus walked out into the street. His plans had changed. The altercation had given him a fierce thirst. Visiting the shrine could come later, after he’d had some wine. Rather than jingle his purse, which might attract unwanted attention, he laid a discreet hand to it. Its weight, far more substantial than normal, was of immense satisfaction. Well done, Fusco, he thought. You did the Rapax, and me, proud.
A hundred paces from the betmaker’s shop, his stomach began to rumble. It had been many hours since he’d eaten, and some ballast would prevent the wine going straight to his head. Tullus stopped at the counter of an open-fronted restaurant, where he took his time over a small bowl of mutton stew and kept a covert eye on the betmaker’s premises. The man poked his head out of his doorway a short time later, but he did nothing more than cast sour looks up and down the street. Content, Tullus traced his way to The Sheaf of Wheat.
***
Tullus leaned back against the tavern wall, grateful for its support. His head spun, and there was a pulse throbbing in his throat. His ears were ringing with the noise of the shouted conversations going on around him, and the musicians to his left sounded like a mob of caterwauling cats. It was time to ease back on the wine, he decided. Since his arrival at The Sheaf of Wheat, time had become a blur. It had begun with a chance encounter. He hadn’t seen Valerius, a former comrade in the Rapax, and now a centurion in the Germanica, for two years. Their reunion had been most welcome.
Drinking partner on hand, Tullus had reckoned himself set up for the night, but he had forgotten Valerius’ ability to soak up wine like a sponge. They had finished six jugs, thought Tullus fuzzily, or was it eight? He focused with difficulty on Valerius, who had pulled one of the establishment’s whores, a dusky Iberian, onto his lap. ‘Valerius. What time is it?’
His face buried in the whore’s bosom, Valerius didn’t hear.
‘Valerius!’ Tullus hammered a fist onto the table.
Valerius broke away with evident reluctance. ‘What?’
‘How long have we been here?’
‘Who cares?’ Valerius cast an eye at the line of small windows that ran along the front wall. ‘It’s almost dark. More than that, I can’t tell you.’ He cupped one of the whore’s breasts, and added, ‘There’s plenty of time for drinking and fucking! That’s all that matters.’
Tullus was about to answer, when his nostrils filled with rose scent. Turning his head, he found a beautiful woman – curvy in the right places, black hair cut in the Egyptian style, eyes rimmed with kohl – seating herself on the table. Her loose-topped dress was inviting enough, but more tantalising were her open legs, which were arranging themselves on either side of him. Tullus couldn’t help but gaze between them. She was wearing the scantiest of undergarments, which left nothing to the imagination.
She let out a throaty laugh, and raised his chin with a scarlet-tipped finger. ‘Like what you see, optio?’
Tullus’ tongue was thick in his mouth. He nodded.
‘My friend is no optio,’ Valerius remonstrated. ‘Tullus is a centurion. Just been promoted, he has.’
‘A centurion,’ purred the whore, rubbing a foot against Tullus’ crotch. ‘I love senior officers.’
I bet you do, thought Tullus. Your prices just tripled. Despite his cynicism, however, he was becoming aroused. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Hathor,’ came the husky reply. ‘Why don’t you take me upstairs?’ She leaned in close, filling his face with her cleavage.
What a good idea, thought Tullus, his lust running wild. It had been months since he had bedded a woman. In his current state, it was debatable whether he’d be able to finish the act, but it was worth a try. He shifted his legs, preparing to stand, and felt his purse – attached to his belt – move against his upper thigh. Damn, it was heavy, thought Tullus, rallying the vestiges of his self-control. If he followed Hathor, one thing would lead to another very fast. When he was done, he would fall asleep – that was the way of such things. If he wasn’t up to performing, sleep would take him – this too was inevitable. It was also predictable for whores to rifle through their clients’ belongings. There wasn’t a whore in the world, Tullus decided regretfully, with the restraint to leave his golden aurei where they belonged. Much as he wanted to do as Hathor asked, a drunken fuck, or more like, an attempt at one, wasn’t worth losing his winnings.
‘Not tonight,’ he said, moving her foot from his groin. Fuzzy-headed with lust and wine, he didn’t notice the brief change in her posture as her toes touched his bulging purse.
Hathor pouted. ‘You won’t regret it.’
I would, Tullus, thought. ‘Maybe later,’ he said.
‘What’s wrong with you, man?’ demanded Valerius. ‘She’s the best-looking whore in the place.’
‘I’ve got other business,’ said Tullus, standing with an effort. He picked up his helmet.
‘What could be more important than wine and a beautiful whore?’
‘I need to make an offering,’ he said remembering his resolution earlier in the day. ‘Thanks for my luck earlier, you know.’
Valerius grinned and tapped the side of his nose. ‘I understand. Come back when you’re done. I’ll still be here.’
‘So will I,’ said Hathor, trailing a hand down Tullus’ arm.
Tullus tipped his head at Valerius, gave Hathor’s arse a squeeze, and weaved his way to the door.
Neither he nor Valerius saw the faint nod that Hathor gave to the pair of tough looking men propping up the counter nearby.
Fighting his way free of the crowd – the inn was packed – Tullus pushed past the doormen, three bruisers who bore more than a passing resemblance to ill-carved slabs of stone. After the room’s pungent fug, the cool night air felt wonderful on his flushed face. He took a deep breath, and another. A walk would do him good. Once his offering had been made, he could return here if he still had a stomach for more drinking. Removed from the twin temptations of wine and Hathor’s body, though, Tullus wondered if finding his guesthouse might be wiser. ‘Which way to the shrine of Magna Mater and Isis?’ he asked of the nearest doorman.
‘That way, sir.’ A massive arm pointed down the darkening street, which still had decent numbers of people on it. ‘It’s not far, perhaps a quarter of a mile.’
Tullus considered his options. The temple wasn’t far, but the light was fast fading from the sky. His return journey to either inn or guesthouse would be made in complete darkness, that was clear. All kinds of lowlifes emerged onto the streets after sundown. Noticing the look in the doorman’s eyes, which suggested he thought Tullus was afraid, Tullus rolled his shoulders angrily, and checked that his sword hilt was where it should be. Without a backward glance, he set off for the temple.
The uneven paving was treacherous to a sober man, let alone a pissed one. Like the unfortunate Liberalis earlier, Tullus knew he could break an ankle with ease. Twenty steps from the inn, he paused to let his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness before continuing his journey. Drunk legionaries made up much of the traffic. Arms slung over each other’s shoulders, they ambled along, whistling at the painted whores in dim-lit doorways, and arguing over which restaurant they should eat in. Head down, walking with purpose, Tullus passed unseen by all. By the time he had crossed several intersections without hindrance, his confidence was growing. No one would dare hinder an officer of the legions.
‘Get away from me, you vermin!’ The voice came from off to one side. ‘Help! I’m being robbed!’
Tullus searched for the cry’s source. A short distance down a side street he could make out three figures, two confronting the other. Under normal circumstances, a night patrol of Castra Regina, say, Tullus would have had six or more soldiers with him. He was ten strides closer to the trio, a challenge issuing from his lips, before he remembered that he was in fact alone. A glance up and down the street revealed none of the legionaries who had been so plentiful on the first part of his journey. It would have been cowardly to have shouted for help, or to have done an about face, so Tullus summoned all of his bravado, and drew his sword. ‘Be off, you sewer rats! Find someone else’s ankle to bite.’
It became clear in the next six heartbeats that no robbery was taking place. The three were acting in concert, Tullus realised with dull horror, as they spread out, two facing him and one darting around to his rear. He saw no big blades, only a knife and two clubs. That was small comfort. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded in his best parade ground voice.
‘Nothing at all, optio,’ said the nearest, a burly man in a hooded cloak. ‘Hand over your purse. Do it quick, and you’ll never see us again.’
‘There’s precious little in it,’ replied Tullus with mock sorrow. ‘I’ve been drinking since before the race began.’
‘We want it nonetheless. Now.’
The man’s tone implied that he knew about his winnings, thought Tullus with alarm. Had the betmaker followed him after all? Or had he missed something at the inn? Acutely aware of the thug already behind him, he had no time to work it out. Casting a look over his shoulder, he cursed. The third man stood ten paces away, blocking his path back to the larger thoroughfare. He’d fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book, and if he didn’t give up his winnings, he would end up choking on his own blood, or with his brains oozing out of the soup pan of his skull. Yet the thought of handing over his money made Tullus’ pride flare up, white hot. Whoresons, he thought. They’re not getting it.
The street they were on was typical: narrow, with stone- and brick-built houses on either side. There was no one in sight, not a soul who might help, and so Tullus picked a building with a large entrance. With a few quick sidesteps, he placed his back against the door.
Hooded Cloak moved closer at once; his companions followed, like shadows. They were careful to stay beyond reach of Tullus’ sword, but there was no doubting their intention. ‘Are you going to break it down?’ demanded the largest of the three, whose body odour was palpable at ten paces. His companions sniggered.
It was a faint hope indeed that anyone would answer – only a fool would unbar his door to a stranger after dark – but Tullus struck his sword hilt off the timbers behind him. Thump. Thump. Thump. ‘Open up, in the name of the emperor,’ he roared. ‘An officer of the Eighteenth Legion demands entrance, on official business!’
‘What kind of imperial officer comes calling at this hour?’ asked Hooded Cloak with a laugh. ‘You’ve got one more chance. Hand over your purse by the count of ten, or we’ll kill you. One.’
Thump. Thump. Thump. Tullus stopped, listened. He could hear nothing from within the house.
‘Two.’
Thump. Thump. Thump.
‘Three.’
Tullus’ eyes moved over the trio, assessing them. Hooded Cloak was the leader, which also made it likely that he was the most dangerous. Unless he was a fool, however, he would prefer his men to shed their blood first.
‘Four.’
That meant that Filthy, the one who stank, had to be downed first. The last man, who was unsteady on his feet, was either old, or drunk. Maybe he was both. Wineskin, I’ll call him, thought Tullus. He’s the least of my worries.
‘Five.’
Tullus hammered again on the door. ‘Open, in the name of all that’s holy!’ Still he heard not a sound.
‘I’m losing my patience,’ snarled Hooded Cloak. ‘Six. Seven.’
Tullus touched the phallus amulet at his neck, and removed the bronze bracelet from his right wrist, gripping the body of it in his left fist so that the decorative rams’ heads protruded from his knuckles. He’d never had cause to use it so, but more than one soldier had told him it was a fearful weapon if raked across an opponent’s face. It wasn’t as good as having a shield, but needs must. He readied his sword arm, and blinked away sweat. If the three came at him together, things would be difficult indeed. He had to hope that Hooded Cloak would hang back a fraction.
‘Eight.’
Tullus made a feint at Filthy, hoping to give him a flesh wound and take him out of the equation. The ploy was an utter failure: Filthy dodged backwards, faster than Tullus could follow, and Hooded Cloak thrust his knife at Tullus, forcing him back to the doorway.
‘You dog,’ said Hooded Cloak. ‘Nine. Ten. Purse?’
‘Fuck you!’ The bracelet had made it difficult to untie the drawstring from his belt, but Tullus had managed it. With a grunt, he hurled his purse straight at Hooded Cloak. Drunk or not, Tullus was so close that the bag flew straight and true, smashing into the man’s face with a satisfying thunk. Hooded Cloak screamed, the purse burst open, and coins fell with a musical jingle to the ground.
The unmistakeable sound had the desired effect. Both Filthy and Wineskin’s gaze moved to their leader, and the fallen money. Tullus was already moving forward. Ripping the bracelet across Filthy’s cheek, he felt it tear the flesh open. Filthy shrieked, and Tullus stabbed him in the belly for good measure. In, out, just enough to slice the guts. Filthy’s moaning doubled in volume, and he staggered away. Tullus felt the air move by his head as Wineskin, reacting too late, brought down his club in a swingeing blow that would have dropped him in his tracks. Shuffling his feet, he retreated to the doorway.
‘You whoreson,’ growled Hooded Cloak, his voice muffled by the hand he was holding to his face. ‘My fucking nose is broken.’
‘Come closer and see what else I can offer you,’ retorted Tullus, wondering if he could yet survive.
‘I’m going to kill you,’ said Hooded Cloak. ‘No one hurts me like that and lives to tell the tale.’ He glanced at Wineskin. ‘Ready?’
‘Aye.’ Wobbly or not, there was a purposeful set to Wineskin’s stance.
‘Wait. I’ll go at him first.’
The two others were only too glad to let Filthy limp forward, holding his stomach with one hand, but somehow wielding his club with the other.
Some men were too stupid to know when to die, thought Tullus, fighting a rising sense of dismay. With a badly wounded but still dangerous Filthy leading the attack, he still had three enemies to face. He was about to pay the ultimate price for his stupidity. I’ve been generous to you in the past, great Mars, he prayed. Let me take at least two of them with me. ‘Come on, you dogs,’ he growled. ‘Who wants to meet the ferryman first?’ His threat made Hooded Cloak and Wineskin hesitate for a heartbeat, no more. They were readying themselves to rush him, Tullus saw, and when they did, it would all be over. There was no shame in calling for help, he decided. Some legionaries might be within earshot.
His mouth opened.
But before he could utter a word, Filthy came at him. Wineskin and Hooded Cloak were two steps behind.
Overhead, a shutter banged open.
Ducking under Filthy’s clumsy club swing, Tullus heard and smelt the foul smelling stream of liquid that poured from above. He stuck Filthy through the gut again, this time running the blade in to the hilt. Giving Filthy a massive head-butt for good measure, he twisted the blade and shoved Filthy backwards, off his sword and into Wineskin, who went stumbling backwards.
‘Bastard!’ Hooded Cloak was still wiping piss and shit from his face when Tullus stabbed him through the throat. Hooded Cloak’s eyes bulged with shock; his lips moved, but no sound came out. Crimson sprayed everywhere – over Tullus, all down Hooded Cloak’s front – as the sword came free. Down he went, into the mud, where he twitched a couple of times and was still.
Tullus’ eyes cast around for Wineskin – and Filthy, who should have died once already. To his relief, Filthy was lying on his back ten paces away. If he wasn’t dead, he would be soon. Wineskin had picked himself up, and was staring at Tullus with wary eyes, clearly torn between revenging his friends and running away.
‘Go,’ ordered Tullus, pointing with his bloodied sword.
With perfect timing, another pot of waste was emptied from above, spattering rank liquid just short of Wineskin’s feet. Hawking a gob of phlegm in Tullus’ direction, he slipped off into the night.
Wary in case fresh ordure be heaped on his head, Tullus shuffled forward a step and called up, ‘I thank you for your assistance.’
There was a loud chuckle. ‘My old bones aren’t up to a fight any more, but I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Are you hurt?’
‘My pride has taken a little bit of battering,’ Tullus replied, ‘but otherwise I am unscathed.’
‘The gods be thanked.’
‘I would be even more in your debt if you could bring some light. Otherwise I shall have lost the contents of my purse in spite of your aid.’
‘Give me a moment,’ called Tullus’ benefactor.
Trying not to step on any of his coins, many of which were glinting in the mud like little gold discs, Tullus moved to stand over Filthy, who still had enough strength to lunge at his feet. Tullus kicked him in the head and then ran him through the chest. That done, he checked the alley again. There was no sign of Wineskin, yet he didn’t relax. Carelessness had almost cost him his life.
Iron screeched off iron as the door bolts were thrown back. The door eased open and in the orange glow of an oil lamp, Tullus saw a slight, grey-haired man clad in an old army tunic. Understanding flooded through him. ‘You’re a veteran.’
The old man’s back straightened. ‘Aye. Twenty-five years I served, in the Germanica. And you, sir?’
‘Twelve so far, in the Rapax. I’ve just been posted to the Eighteenth.’
‘It’s as well I roused myself from my bed, sir,’ said the old man, saluting. ‘Having a centurion murdered on my doorstep would have been terrible.’
‘I’m grateful,’ said Tullus, the awareness of how lucky he’d been beginning to sink in. He stretched out his hand. They shook, and the old man said, ‘Can I invite you inside?’
‘Thank you, but no.’ Tullus explained how he’d thrown his purse, and a little embarrassed, revealed how much had been in it.
‘Twenty-four aurei?’ The old man whistled. ‘That’s a tidy sum.’
‘Aye,’ replied Tullus, knowing he’d be lucky to find more than half of his winnings.
***
In the event, he did better than that. With the help of the old man’s slave, and every oil lamp in the house, they found all but two of the gold coins. Tullus pressed four into the veteran’s hand, ignoring his protests. ‘I insist. You saved my life. If your slave can find the last aurei once it’s light, he’s welcome to them.’
With the two men’s blessings ringing loud in his ears, Tullus returned to the main street, and made his way to the temple without further hindrance. The guards at the entrance gave him strange looks – a moment later, in the bright light cast by the lamps hanging from two huge bronze stands, Tullus realised it was because he was covered in spatters of blood – but did not stand in his way. They were used to such sights and more, he thought with revulsion. Priests of Magna Mater were known to mutilate and even castrate themselves during sacred ceremonies. It was an odd religion by anyone’s reckoning, which explained why, despite its popularity, it was still illegal.
The high-walled complex was square in shape, with a central courtyard surrounded on all sides by rooms. The largest two, which faced one another across the east and west sides of the enclosure, were the shrines proper, one each for Magna Mater and Isis. In front of both sat a large stone altar, where sacrifices were made. The rest of the rooms were given over as storage or sleeping chambers, or used to instruct students enrolled in the priesthood of either god.
The hour might have been growing late, yet the place was packed, and despite the crowd, an eerie atmosphere prevailed. The air was alive to the noise of religious chants, unintelligible cries and loud music. A cockerel squawked as it was plucked from a cage and borne towards one of the altars. Strange smells – incense, and other substances – came off numerous glowing braziers. Shadows moved in the nearby chambers, and it was difficult to know if the sounds that issued from within them were of pain, pleasure or something else altogether. In the dim light, Tullus couldn’t be sure if the dark liquid oozing from the straw underfoot was just mud. He thought it best not to check.
The majority of those present near the shrine to Magna Mater were women. Old or young, well or sick, barren or pregnant, each had a request of the goddess, who was celebrated as a healer and provider of fertility. Some danced, spinning in wild circles to the sound of cymbals played by priestesses in bright coloured robes. Others stood on the spot, wailing their devotion over and over. One woman, silent as a corpse, tore at her cheeks and face with her fingernails. Streaks of blood ran down her neck, staining her dress.
Tullus felt most ill at ease. If this was the norm for an ordinary night, who knew what went on during the goddess’ festivals, when only women and castrated men were permitted to attend. With a respectful bow of his head – despite his reservations, he had no wish to offend Magna Mater – he made his way to the other side of the square. He felt more at home with Isis. She too was revered as a goddess of fertility, but she was also worshipped by sailors, and by those seeking good fortune. It must have been she who had helped him win so much money, Tullus decided. The thought of his coin made him drop a nonchalant hand to his purse. Thieves operated everywhere, even inside temples.
‘Like to know your future?’ The gravelly voice belonged to a skeletally thin soothsayer in a characteristic blunt-peaked hat. He sidled closer, using his lituus to open a path through the crowd. Close up, his doughy skin and pallor could not be mistaken. The man was ill, thought Tullus, hoping it wasn’t catching. He quickened his pace. He had no time for charlatans, in particular ones who were sick.
‘You’ve been in a fight. The other man came off worse. That’s why you’re here.’
‘Wrong,’ said Tullus, although he did want to give thanks for his luck in the alley.
‘Making a journey by sea soon, are you?’
‘No,’ replied Tullus curtly.
The soothsayer wasn’t to be put off. Despite the throng, he somehow kept up with Tullus. ‘Needing to know if your new-born will thrive?’
‘No.’
‘Ah!’ cried the soothsayer. ‘Your woman wants a child in her belly!’
‘Piss off,’ hissed Tullus. He had no woman. The army was work enough.
‘You’re in need of luck then. Luck in your career. Luck with earning your superiors’ respect.’
‘I need nothing from you! Out of my way, maggot,’ ordered Tullus.
‘What a fine officer you make,’ said the soothsayer in an acid tone. ‘So quick to condemn, so quick to assume that every prophecy is a fake.’ He retreated before Tullus’ raised fist, however.
Tullus had almost reached the altar dedicated to Isis when the soothsayer’s voice reached his ears again. ‘Some unexpected good fortune has come your way. The goddess deserves your thanks.’
The fool has worked his way through every possible reason why I’m here, thought Tullus angrily. This had to be the last one.
‘Enjoy it while it lasts. Such things are ever brief.’
The man is so predictable, thought Tullus. Luck lasts for no one. He cast his eye over the caged birds that were for sale as sacrificial offerings. There were no pigs or sheep – they were regarded by the priests of Isis as unclean. In the dark, and with so many worshippers about, it would be unsafe to allow cattle within the shrine, so poultry and songbirds were all that was on offer. A brace of fine cockerels would suffice, he decided.
‘Mud,’ cried the soothsayer.
Ignoring him, Tullus bent to examine the cockerel in the top cage of a stack arranged before a wizened crone seated on a stool. ‘You have a keen eye, sir,’ she wheezed.
‘That’s the best bird in Mogontiacum.’
‘Seas of mud!’ said the soothsayer, louder.
‘Of course it is,’ said Tullus drily. ‘How much?’
‘Two denarii,’ replied the crone.
Tullus had time to let out an incredulous laugh before the soothsayer’s voice interrupted again. It was closer now. ‘I see you and your soldiers surrounded by mud, and bog, and trees, thousands of trees. Blood. There is blood everywhere.’
Tullus’ temper began to overflow. He wheeled, ready to deliver a kick or a punch. ‘Your lies do not scare me. Be gone, dog, or I’ll give you a good hiding.’
It was as if the soothsayer did not hear him. Spit dribbled from the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were rolled back in his head, exposing the whites. It was even more unnerving how he continued to approach Tullus without falling. The crowd melted away from him, people averting their gaze and muttering prayers.
‘Mud. And rain, torrential rain, sent by the gods. There are dead legionaries everywhere,’ intoned the soothsayer. ‘You are trapped, and so are your soldiers.’
Despite himself, Tullus felt unease stir in his belly.
‘My ears are filled with men’s screams. The gods have forsaken them, they cry.’
Unsettled as much by the soothsayer’s trance as his words, Tullus seized the man’s robe with both hands and shook him, hard. ‘Stop this!’
The soothsayer’s eyes twitched, then slid down to their normal position. He blinked, focused on Tullus. ‘W-what was I saying?’
‘You were talking gibberish about mud, and trapped soldiers.’
The soothsayer gave him a blank look.
‘Trying to frighten me, were you?’
The soothsayer raised his hands. ‘I don’t remember what I said.’
‘Don’t try that on me!’ snarled Tullus. ‘What do you take me for – a superstitious fool, who’ll believe anything?’
‘If I gave offence, I’m sorry,’ faltered the soothsayer. ‘I cannot recall a word of what I said. May Isis and Magna Mater strike me down if I lie.’
If the man was shamming, he was doing a fine job of it, thought Tullus, releasing him. He scanned the soothsayer’s face again, but could see no trace of guilt. For the first time, fear caressed the base of Tullus’ spine. Was it possible that the soothsayer had been sent a vision by one of the goddesses? Don’t be stupid, he told himself. The man’s mad, or his brains have been scrambled by fever. ‘Be off with you,’ he barked.
The contrite soothsayer didn’t protest; he just turned away, a pathetic figure now, all skinny arms and bony legs. Tullus felt a twinge of remorse. A swift rummage in his purse produced a sestertius. ‘Here,’ he called. ‘Buy some food. You look starved.’
‘The blessings of the goddesses be upon you,’ cried the soothsayer, seizing the coin. ‘Pay no attention to my ravings. They mean nothing, nothing at all.’
Concealing his disquiet – there were people watching – Tullus forced out a hearty laugh. ‘I don’t need you to tell me that. Now piss off before I take my money back.’
Hours later, his offering to Isis accepted, the walk back to his guesthouse negotiated, Tullus lay in bed, unable to sleep. The soothsayer’s words rolled around his head like stones in a musician’s gourd, their endless noise disquieting and annoying by turn. He had heard many bad prophecies over the years – some directed at others, some at him – but he’d never before been so affected.
It was the wine he’d drunk that had him rattled, Tullus told himself, or else it was delayed shock caused by his near escape in the alley. The strange air in the temple hadn’t helped either. Maybe it was all three. Whatever the reason, the soothsayer had been talking nonsense. Tullus didn’t know a soul who’d ever been given a reliable prophecy – at least one that hadn’t been paid for, in coin.
These certainties did not help him get to sleep.
In the end, Tullus gave up. Hiding the greater part of his winnings under a loose floorboard, he returned to the Sheaf of Wheat in search of Valerius. More wine would help him forget the crazed soothsayer and his fantasies.
So too, he wagered, would Hathor.
Author’s Note
The idea for this short story came to me during a research trip to Germany in November 2014. I was travelling along the Rhine, visiting historical sites and Roman museums, picking up information and getting a feel for the landscape that will feature in my next three novels. These are set on the German frontier of the Roman Empire, and take place during the years AD 9-16. The first book, Eagles at War, is about the notorious battle of the Teutoberg Forest, during which three legions were wiped out. You can read all about it in April 2015. Order the book here.
The central Roman character in the trilogy is Tullus, a man whose history has fascinated me from the first time I wrote about him. As a middle-aged veteran, he would have seen things and been places, if you know what I mean. He would have done things too. Usually, the confines of novels mean that I, the writer, never get to experience what else a character might have done. Yet ideas about people like Tullus still come to me, and I have to live with them, half-formed things that never go away, and never get written.
Things were different last November when I set foot inside the temple to Isis and Magna Mater in the town of Mainz (Mogontiacum). I was so gripped by what I encountered that I knew a story about Tullus visiting this temple would happen.
The modern museum might be set in the most unlikely spot (under the central passage of a busy shopping centre), yet the shrine within is dark, mysterious and more atmospheric than I could have believed. The low-level lighting that only comes on as you enter each new section was eerie; so too was the quavering flute music and chanting that came on. Thanks to my first novel, the odd, bloodthirsty rituals celebrated by those who worshipped Magna Mater were familiar to me, but it was incredible to see original offerings of strange little clay figures (some pierced through with needles), and scraps of lead inscribed with curses written by angry or wronged people 2,000 years ago. My mind went into overdrive, picturing a young Tullus, drunk, wandering down an alleyway and finding this temple. Entering, he would hear a prophecy that he’d discount as entirely mad. Years later, it would come back to haunt him.
The Shrine is the result of my idea. I hope you enjoy it.
Glossary
Augustus: successor to Julius Caesar, and the first Roman emperor.
aurei (sing. aureus): an uncommon gold coin, worth twenty-five denarii.
Borbetomagus: Worms.
Castra Regina: Regensburg.
centurion (in Latin, centurio): the disciplined career officers who formed the backbone of the Roman army.
Danuvius: the River Danube.
denarii (sing. denarius): cast from silver, these were the staple coins of the Roman empire. One denarius was worth four sestertii, or one twenty-fifth of an aureus.
Drusus: Nero Claudius Drusus was a stepson of Augustus, and an excellent military leader who led major campaigns into Germany in the years 12-9 BC. He died at the young age of 29 after an accident on campaign. His monument still stands in Mainz, and reading about the soldiers’ footrace to it merely whetted my appetite to write about Tullus visiting the town.
Fortuna: the goddess of luck and good fortune.
Gallia Belgica: the Roman province to the west of the Rhine, which incorporated Belgium, Luxembourg, and parts of France, Holland and the German Rhineland.
Hathor: an Egyptian goddess of joy, feminine love and motherhood.
Iberian: someone from the Iberian peninsula, modern day Spain and Portugal.
Isis: an Egyptian goddess of fertility, new-born babies, and good fortune. She was held in special regard by women, but was also revered by sailors and slaves. Although distrusted by Augustus, her worship was widespread throughout the empire.
legion – the largest independent unit of the Roman army. At full strength, it consisted of ten cohorts, each comprised of six centuries of eighty men, all of which were led by a centurion. The First Germanica, or ‘German’ legion, the Fifth Alaudae, or ‘Larks’ legion, and the Twenty First Rapax, or ‘Predator’ legion, were units stationed on the Rhine in the late first century BC and early first century AD.
lituus: the curved bronze badge of office carried by soothsayers. Modern bishops’ croziers are no different!
Magna Mater: a strange and mysterious goddess imported to Rome from Asia Minor (Turkey).
Mars: the god of war.
Mogontiacum: modern day Mainz.
optio: the officer who ranked just below a centurion; the second-in-command of a century.
primus pilus: the senior centurion of a legion. A veteran in his forties or fifties, he was also the third-in-command of the legion.
Rhenus: the River Rhine.
sestertius (pl. sestertii): a brass coin that was worth a quarter of a denarius, or one hundredth of an aureus.
tribune (in Latin, tribunus): one of six senior staff officers within a legion.
Vetera: modern day Xanten.
This is a prelude to the new book, Eagles at War, which comes out in just over a month...
Mogontiacum, Germania, spring 6 BC
It was a fine day in the Roman province of Gallia Belgica. The scudding clouds overhead held little threat of rain, and regular intervals of warm sunshine were enough proof that winter had gone for another year. Outside the town of Mogontiacum, the road was packed with hundreds of legionaries and civilians, come to watch the annual foot race that formed part of the celebrations commemorating the tragic death three years previously of Drusus, beloved general of the local legions and stepson of the emperor Augustus.
The contest would end at Drusus’ tall, marble-faced memorial. A cluster of high-ranking officers and civic officials watched there, from the comfort of a wooden stand that had been erected for the occasion. Lucius Cominius Tullus, a solid soldier with close cut brown hair and a long jaw, had done well to secure a spot which afforded views right up to the monument. He had been passing through Mogontiacum the day before, and it had seemed a fine plan to stay for the race, which was famous far and wide.
Tullus was happy to linger because he was in no particular rush to finish his journey to Vetera, some two hundred miles down the River Rhenus. He needed a little time to think. His recent promotion from optio to centurion had meant leaving the ‘Rapax’ Twenty First Legion, the unit which he’d joined as a stripling youth more than ten years before. It was a massive step – a positive one, to be sure, but one that needed to sink in. His future now lay with the Eighteenth Legion, in Vetera. If he kept his nose clean, led his men well and continued to distinguish himself in battle, he stood a decent chance of becoming a senior centurion, commanding a cohort, before the end of his career. A grin split his face. It was even possible that he could ascend to the dizzying heights of primus pilus, the highest ranking centurion of the legion.
The loud conversations of those around him brought Tullus back to the present, and the race, which would end soon. Soldiers from every legion stationed on the Rhenus and Danuvius rivers were taking part. It didn’t feel right to support men from the Eighteenth yet; until his journey ended, he hadn’t actually joined his new legion. His loyalties remained in Castra Regina, with the Rapax.
It had been the most natural thing in the world, therefore, to place his bets on soldiers from the Rapax. Tullus didn’t know Fusco and Justus, the two finest athletes in his old legion, but he knew of them. The twelve to one odds offered by local betmakers for either man to win the race had only added to the appeal of backing them. A sense of duty had made Tullus also place twenty denarii on the best of the Eighteenth’s runners, although the long odds made it unlikely that he would ever see a return.
Tullus let out a loud, luxurious belch, then another. The soldier in front of him turned with a truculent expression, but seeing the optio’s helmet tucked under Tullus’ arm, decided to keep his peace. In a jovial mood thanks to the wine he had consumed, Tullus affected not to have noticed the legionary’s aborted challenge, concentrating instead on the road before them. Narrow, paved, winding, and lined with tombs, it led right towards the large military camp and the town of Mogontiacum, and left to the settlement of Borbetomagus. At his back, adjacent to the River Rhenus, was the local amphitheatre, and on the other side of the road, some three hundred paces distant, was the grand monument that honoured Drusus.
‘The race is about five miles long, eh?’ asked Tullus of the legionary who had wheeled around.
‘That’s right, sir,’ came the penitent reply. ‘They start at the gates of the main camp, head south on this road to the small encampment, and back again, to Drusus’ monument. The first man to touch the inscription is the victor.’
‘Who won the first two races?’
The legionary’s chest puffed out. ‘The same man, sir. Liberalis, of the Germanica. With Fortuna’s help, he’ll be victorious again this year.’
‘Not if Helvius has anything to do with it,’ yelled a soldier on the other side of the road. ‘A-laudae! A-laudae! A-laudae!’
At once the pair and their companions exchanged a barrage of abuse.
Men from the local garrison – the First Germanica and the Fifth Alaudae legions – would have a big advantage over those from units further afield, thought Tullus. They would be familiar with the course, having trained on it as often as they wished. Entrants from the Rapax, his old unit, were only permitted to arrive at Mogontiacum a few days before the contest, and Tullus doubted that entrants from the other Rhenus legions were allowed to act any different.
‘Here they come,’ called a voice.
Cheering broke out among the spectators to the south, and everyone craned their necks to see. Second from the front, Tullus had a great view as the contestants sprinted around the last corner and into sight. Two men led the race, first a slight, black-haired legionary, and then a tall soldier with a ground-eating stride. They were separated by no more than five paces. Behind them came the rest, a pack of more than a dozen legionaries, elbowing and shoving at one another.
‘Come on, Liberalis, you can do it,’ roared the soldier who had spoken to Tullus. ‘Come on, the Germanica!’
Plenty of men nearby echoed his cry, while those on the opposite side of the road jeered and shouted, ‘Hel-vius! Hel-vius!’ or ‘A-laudae! A-laudae!’
Tullus felt a tinge of disappointment that either Liberalis or Helvius – both local soldiers – would take the victory. Although the figures in the main group were bunched too close to make any of them out, he wanted either Fusco or Justus, from the Rapax, to be near the front. Failing that, a legionary from the Eighteenth would do. There might yet be time for someone to catch the leaders before they reached Drusus’ monument.
His hopes were soon dashed. While the gap between Liberalis and Helvius narrowed as the pair hammered up the slope towards Tullus’ position, the rest of the runners fell back a little. The clamour from the crowd grew deafening, as hundreds of men roared at the top of their voices and stamped their nailed sandals on the ground. When the pair drew alongside Tullus, Liberalis was still in the lead, but only just. Arms pumping, eyes fixed on the finishing area, he pelted by. Helvius was right on his heels, but there was a glazed look in his eyes. Getting so close to Liberalis had taken its toll, thought Tullus. Helvius had used the last of his energy. Knowing when to use that was a crucial skill for any athlete, and it seemed that Helvius had misjudged his moment.
Sure enough, Liberalis’ lead began to increase. First it was three paces that he led his competitor, then six, and ten. Helvius pursued his rival up the hill with dogged courage, but it was clear that his attempt to win the race was over.
The soldiers around Tullus scented victory. ‘GERMAN-ICA! GERMAN-ICA! GERMAN-ICA!’ they shouted, drowning out the cries of those supporting Helvius.
The main body of runners pounded past. Tullus was pleased to spot Fusco and Justus together, and at the front. Fusco, a lithe figure, was leading, and Justus, a blocky man with thighs like small tree trunks, was tucked in right behind him. Like as not, thought Tullus, they’d been setting pace for one another since the start. They would do their legion proud, perhaps finishing in the top three.
Loud gasps – shouts of dismay from some, and of triumph from others – filled his ears, and Tullus glanced up the slope, to Liberalis and Helvius. To his surprise, Helvius was now ahead of Liberalis, who was struggling to his feet. He began to chase after Helvius, but it was clear he would not manage to catch his adversary.
‘What happened?’ cried Tullus.
‘He looked back at Helvius, and tripped on a loose paving stone,’ came the sour answer from the legionary in front.
‘Stupid bastard. He had the race won,’ commented a voice behind.
Every man in the main group of runners had realised that Liberalis’ misfortune had afforded them a last chance. The pack’s speed increased, each soldier desperate to catch the still flagging Helvius. They soon passed Liberalis, who was now limping badly.
Because Drusus’ monument lay some distance uphill, Tullus’ view of the runners was better than if the ground had been flat. His excitement rose as several soldiers sprinted ahead of the rest, closing fast on Helvius. To his frustration, he couldn’t make out individual men. Let one of them be from the Rapax, he prayed.
The din from the spectators at the finishing area rose to the heavens in the moments that followed. Figures darted around the monument in an effort to finish the race, and at least one fell. Two men closed in on the inscription before the rest, and the one that reached it first raised a fist in triumph. Trumpets blared to signify that the race was over, and the crowd went even wilder.
‘Who won? Who won?’ clamoured a hundred voices.
‘HEL-VIUS! HEL-VIUS! HEL-VIUS!’ shouted the legionaries on the opposite side of the road.
‘Whoreson,’ yelled the soldier in front of Tullus. ‘He fouled Liberalis somehow, or I’m no judge.’
Arguments began over who had done what, which legionaries were fittest and who the winner should be, and continued until the trumpets sounded a fanfare that drowned everyone’s voices out.
Tullus squinted as sunlight winked off gilded armour on the road in front of the monument. A senior officer was shepherding the victor forward. The trumpets’ sound died away, and an expectant hush fell.
‘Loyal soldiers of Rome, fine citizens of Mogontiacum,’ cried the officer, whose red sash revealed him to be a tribune. ‘We are here today to honour the shade of our beloved commander Drusus, whose loss we still grieve. He would be proud of the race that has just been run! Right to the end, it seemed that men from every legion on the Rhenus could snatch victory. However, one soldier touched Drusus’ inscription before the rest. That man is Fusco, of the Twenty-First Legion, the Rapax.’ With a flourish, he placed a wreath on Fusco’s head.
Further up the hill, a section of the crowd began chanting, ‘RA-PAX!’
However, the applause from the rest of the spectators was desultory – their comrades hadn’t won, and their wagers had been for nought. The next thing on their minds was more wine, or a woman, or both. This was a rest day for the local soldiery and they had to make the most of it.
‘Fusco did it!’ muttered Tullus, grinning at the thought of the winnings he’d collect. Six hundred denarii was a sizeable sum, enough to feed and water him like a tribune, never mind a centurion. The notion of buying a horse for the rest of his journey to Vetera was now a reality, rather than the fanciful wish it had been before.
‘You’re with the Rapax, sir?’ asked the legionary in front of him.
‘Aye.’ Tullus caught himself. ‘Well, I was, until recent days. I’ve been transferred, to the Eighteenth.’
The significance of this move wasn’t lost on the soldier, whose eyes widened. ‘Begging your pardon for my behaviour earlier, centurion, when you, you–’ His voice failed.
‘When I belched in your ear!’ Tullus said with a laugh. ‘It was a trifle rude, I’ll admit.’
‘Not at all, sir,’ protested the soldier, his flush worsening.
‘Peace,’ ordered Tullus. ‘Tell me, is there a decent watering hole near here? The places I’ve seen are worse than the basest establishments in Castra Regina.’
‘You could do worse than The Sheaf of Wheat, sir.’ The soldier pointed towards Mogontiacum. ‘Make for the centre of the town. There’s a staggered crossroads not far from the gate. You want the street that leads towards the river, and the temple of Magna Mater and Isis. Look out for the pair of water troughs decorated with fauns. It’s opposite them.’ His face split into a smile as he caught the silver coin that Tullus had flipped at him. ‘Thank you, sir!’
‘To help drown your sorrows. May Liberalis do better next year.’ Tullus strode off in the direction of the town. Once he had collected his winnings, he would visit the shrine of the two goddesses, which was famous throughout the region. Only then would he seek out The Sheaf of Wheat.
He had a strong feeling that it was going to be a good night.
***
Tullus adjusted the arms of his wool tunic at the point where they emerged from under his mail, and picked up his helmet. He had placed it on a shelf by the door of the shop as he’d entered. He put it on and tied the chin strap: it afforded no protection when held under one arm. Behind him, the betmaker groaned from under the wreckage of his desk.
Tullus cast him a jaundiced look. ‘Count yourself lucky that I only broke your nose, you thieving cocksucker. Did you really think you could run off without paying me what was mine?’
The betmaker had the wit not to reply.
In truth, thought Tullus, it had been a close run thing. If he had arrived a dozen heartbeats later, the betmaker would have finished locking his door and disappeared into the thronged streets. He knew from their earlier conversation that Tullus was only passing through Mogontiacum. A day or two of lying low, and he would have got away without paying out the six hundred denarii. The gods had been smiling on Tullus, though. The fool had had a beating to remember instead, and had surrendered the full monies due. Any sympathy Tullus might have felt for the man’s plight – the sum would beggar him, he had whined – had vanished at the sight of the glinting aurei in the strongbox that had been hidden under the floor. The gold coins weren’t that common still, yet the betmaker possessed scores of them. Nonetheless, Tullus had been careful to take only what was owed to him – twenty-four aurei.
With a final glance at the betmaker, to make sure he wasn’t thinking of planting a blade in his back, or trying to follow him, Tullus walked out into the street. His plans had changed. The altercation had given him a fierce thirst. Visiting the shrine could come later, after he’d had some wine. Rather than jingle his purse, which might attract unwanted attention, he laid a discreet hand to it. Its weight, far more substantial than normal, was of immense satisfaction. Well done, Fusco, he thought. You did the Rapax, and me, proud.
A hundred paces from the betmaker’s shop, his stomach began to rumble. It had been many hours since he’d eaten, and some ballast would prevent the wine going straight to his head. Tullus stopped at the counter of an open-fronted restaurant, where he took his time over a small bowl of mutton stew and kept a covert eye on the betmaker’s premises. The man poked his head out of his doorway a short time later, but he did nothing more than cast sour looks up and down the street. Content, Tullus traced his way to The Sheaf of Wheat.
***
Tullus leaned back against the tavern wall, grateful for its support. His head spun, and there was a pulse throbbing in his throat. His ears were ringing with the noise of the shouted conversations going on around him, and the musicians to his left sounded like a mob of caterwauling cats. It was time to ease back on the wine, he decided. Since his arrival at The Sheaf of Wheat, time had become a blur. It had begun with a chance encounter. He hadn’t seen Valerius, a former comrade in the Rapax, and now a centurion in the Germanica, for two years. Their reunion had been most welcome.
Drinking partner on hand, Tullus had reckoned himself set up for the night, but he had forgotten Valerius’ ability to soak up wine like a sponge. They had finished six jugs, thought Tullus fuzzily, or was it eight? He focused with difficulty on Valerius, who had pulled one of the establishment’s whores, a dusky Iberian, onto his lap. ‘Valerius. What time is it?’
His face buried in the whore’s bosom, Valerius didn’t hear.
‘Valerius!’ Tullus hammered a fist onto the table.
Valerius broke away with evident reluctance. ‘What?’
‘How long have we been here?’
‘Who cares?’ Valerius cast an eye at the line of small windows that ran along the front wall. ‘It’s almost dark. More than that, I can’t tell you.’ He cupped one of the whore’s breasts, and added, ‘There’s plenty of time for drinking and fucking! That’s all that matters.’
Tullus was about to answer, when his nostrils filled with rose scent. Turning his head, he found a beautiful woman – curvy in the right places, black hair cut in the Egyptian style, eyes rimmed with kohl – seating herself on the table. Her loose-topped dress was inviting enough, but more tantalising were her open legs, which were arranging themselves on either side of him. Tullus couldn’t help but gaze between them. She was wearing the scantiest of undergarments, which left nothing to the imagination.
She let out a throaty laugh, and raised his chin with a scarlet-tipped finger. ‘Like what you see, optio?’
Tullus’ tongue was thick in his mouth. He nodded.
‘My friend is no optio,’ Valerius remonstrated. ‘Tullus is a centurion. Just been promoted, he has.’
‘A centurion,’ purred the whore, rubbing a foot against Tullus’ crotch. ‘I love senior officers.’
I bet you do, thought Tullus. Your prices just tripled. Despite his cynicism, however, he was becoming aroused. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Hathor,’ came the husky reply. ‘Why don’t you take me upstairs?’ She leaned in close, filling his face with her cleavage.
What a good idea, thought Tullus, his lust running wild. It had been months since he had bedded a woman. In his current state, it was debatable whether he’d be able to finish the act, but it was worth a try. He shifted his legs, preparing to stand, and felt his purse – attached to his belt – move against his upper thigh. Damn, it was heavy, thought Tullus, rallying the vestiges of his self-control. If he followed Hathor, one thing would lead to another very fast. When he was done, he would fall asleep – that was the way of such things. If he wasn’t up to performing, sleep would take him – this too was inevitable. It was also predictable for whores to rifle through their clients’ belongings. There wasn’t a whore in the world, Tullus decided regretfully, with the restraint to leave his golden aurei where they belonged. Much as he wanted to do as Hathor asked, a drunken fuck, or more like, an attempt at one, wasn’t worth losing his winnings.
‘Not tonight,’ he said, moving her foot from his groin. Fuzzy-headed with lust and wine, he didn’t notice the brief change in her posture as her toes touched his bulging purse.
Hathor pouted. ‘You won’t regret it.’
I would, Tullus, thought. ‘Maybe later,’ he said.
‘What’s wrong with you, man?’ demanded Valerius. ‘She’s the best-looking whore in the place.’
‘I’ve got other business,’ said Tullus, standing with an effort. He picked up his helmet.
‘What could be more important than wine and a beautiful whore?’
‘I need to make an offering,’ he said remembering his resolution earlier in the day. ‘Thanks for my luck earlier, you know.’
Valerius grinned and tapped the side of his nose. ‘I understand. Come back when you’re done. I’ll still be here.’
‘So will I,’ said Hathor, trailing a hand down Tullus’ arm.
Tullus tipped his head at Valerius, gave Hathor’s arse a squeeze, and weaved his way to the door.
Neither he nor Valerius saw the faint nod that Hathor gave to the pair of tough looking men propping up the counter nearby.
Fighting his way free of the crowd – the inn was packed – Tullus pushed past the doormen, three bruisers who bore more than a passing resemblance to ill-carved slabs of stone. After the room’s pungent fug, the cool night air felt wonderful on his flushed face. He took a deep breath, and another. A walk would do him good. Once his offering had been made, he could return here if he still had a stomach for more drinking. Removed from the twin temptations of wine and Hathor’s body, though, Tullus wondered if finding his guesthouse might be wiser. ‘Which way to the shrine of Magna Mater and Isis?’ he asked of the nearest doorman.
‘That way, sir.’ A massive arm pointed down the darkening street, which still had decent numbers of people on it. ‘It’s not far, perhaps a quarter of a mile.’
Tullus considered his options. The temple wasn’t far, but the light was fast fading from the sky. His return journey to either inn or guesthouse would be made in complete darkness, that was clear. All kinds of lowlifes emerged onto the streets after sundown. Noticing the look in the doorman’s eyes, which suggested he thought Tullus was afraid, Tullus rolled his shoulders angrily, and checked that his sword hilt was where it should be. Without a backward glance, he set off for the temple.
The uneven paving was treacherous to a sober man, let alone a pissed one. Like the unfortunate Liberalis earlier, Tullus knew he could break an ankle with ease. Twenty steps from the inn, he paused to let his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness before continuing his journey. Drunk legionaries made up much of the traffic. Arms slung over each other’s shoulders, they ambled along, whistling at the painted whores in dim-lit doorways, and arguing over which restaurant they should eat in. Head down, walking with purpose, Tullus passed unseen by all. By the time he had crossed several intersections without hindrance, his confidence was growing. No one would dare hinder an officer of the legions.
‘Get away from me, you vermin!’ The voice came from off to one side. ‘Help! I’m being robbed!’
Tullus searched for the cry’s source. A short distance down a side street he could make out three figures, two confronting the other. Under normal circumstances, a night patrol of Castra Regina, say, Tullus would have had six or more soldiers with him. He was ten strides closer to the trio, a challenge issuing from his lips, before he remembered that he was in fact alone. A glance up and down the street revealed none of the legionaries who had been so plentiful on the first part of his journey. It would have been cowardly to have shouted for help, or to have done an about face, so Tullus summoned all of his bravado, and drew his sword. ‘Be off, you sewer rats! Find someone else’s ankle to bite.’
It became clear in the next six heartbeats that no robbery was taking place. The three were acting in concert, Tullus realised with dull horror, as they spread out, two facing him and one darting around to his rear. He saw no big blades, only a knife and two clubs. That was small comfort. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded in his best parade ground voice.
‘Nothing at all, optio,’ said the nearest, a burly man in a hooded cloak. ‘Hand over your purse. Do it quick, and you’ll never see us again.’
‘There’s precious little in it,’ replied Tullus with mock sorrow. ‘I’ve been drinking since before the race began.’
‘We want it nonetheless. Now.’
The man’s tone implied that he knew about his winnings, thought Tullus with alarm. Had the betmaker followed him after all? Or had he missed something at the inn? Acutely aware of the thug already behind him, he had no time to work it out. Casting a look over his shoulder, he cursed. The third man stood ten paces away, blocking his path back to the larger thoroughfare. He’d fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book, and if he didn’t give up his winnings, he would end up choking on his own blood, or with his brains oozing out of the soup pan of his skull. Yet the thought of handing over his money made Tullus’ pride flare up, white hot. Whoresons, he thought. They’re not getting it.
The street they were on was typical: narrow, with stone- and brick-built houses on either side. There was no one in sight, not a soul who might help, and so Tullus picked a building with a large entrance. With a few quick sidesteps, he placed his back against the door.
Hooded Cloak moved closer at once; his companions followed, like shadows. They were careful to stay beyond reach of Tullus’ sword, but there was no doubting their intention. ‘Are you going to break it down?’ demanded the largest of the three, whose body odour was palpable at ten paces. His companions sniggered.
It was a faint hope indeed that anyone would answer – only a fool would unbar his door to a stranger after dark – but Tullus struck his sword hilt off the timbers behind him. Thump. Thump. Thump. ‘Open up, in the name of the emperor,’ he roared. ‘An officer of the Eighteenth Legion demands entrance, on official business!’
‘What kind of imperial officer comes calling at this hour?’ asked Hooded Cloak with a laugh. ‘You’ve got one more chance. Hand over your purse by the count of ten, or we’ll kill you. One.’
Thump. Thump. Thump. Tullus stopped, listened. He could hear nothing from within the house.
‘Two.’
Thump. Thump. Thump.
‘Three.’
Tullus’ eyes moved over the trio, assessing them. Hooded Cloak was the leader, which also made it likely that he was the most dangerous. Unless he was a fool, however, he would prefer his men to shed their blood first.
‘Four.’
That meant that Filthy, the one who stank, had to be downed first. The last man, who was unsteady on his feet, was either old, or drunk. Maybe he was both. Wineskin, I’ll call him, thought Tullus. He’s the least of my worries.
‘Five.’
Tullus hammered again on the door. ‘Open, in the name of all that’s holy!’ Still he heard not a sound.
‘I’m losing my patience,’ snarled Hooded Cloak. ‘Six. Seven.’
Tullus touched the phallus amulet at his neck, and removed the bronze bracelet from his right wrist, gripping the body of it in his left fist so that the decorative rams’ heads protruded from his knuckles. He’d never had cause to use it so, but more than one soldier had told him it was a fearful weapon if raked across an opponent’s face. It wasn’t as good as having a shield, but needs must. He readied his sword arm, and blinked away sweat. If the three came at him together, things would be difficult indeed. He had to hope that Hooded Cloak would hang back a fraction.
‘Eight.’
Tullus made a feint at Filthy, hoping to give him a flesh wound and take him out of the equation. The ploy was an utter failure: Filthy dodged backwards, faster than Tullus could follow, and Hooded Cloak thrust his knife at Tullus, forcing him back to the doorway.
‘You dog,’ said Hooded Cloak. ‘Nine. Ten. Purse?’
‘Fuck you!’ The bracelet had made it difficult to untie the drawstring from his belt, but Tullus had managed it. With a grunt, he hurled his purse straight at Hooded Cloak. Drunk or not, Tullus was so close that the bag flew straight and true, smashing into the man’s face with a satisfying thunk. Hooded Cloak screamed, the purse burst open, and coins fell with a musical jingle to the ground.
The unmistakeable sound had the desired effect. Both Filthy and Wineskin’s gaze moved to their leader, and the fallen money. Tullus was already moving forward. Ripping the bracelet across Filthy’s cheek, he felt it tear the flesh open. Filthy shrieked, and Tullus stabbed him in the belly for good measure. In, out, just enough to slice the guts. Filthy’s moaning doubled in volume, and he staggered away. Tullus felt the air move by his head as Wineskin, reacting too late, brought down his club in a swingeing blow that would have dropped him in his tracks. Shuffling his feet, he retreated to the doorway.
‘You whoreson,’ growled Hooded Cloak, his voice muffled by the hand he was holding to his face. ‘My fucking nose is broken.’
‘Come closer and see what else I can offer you,’ retorted Tullus, wondering if he could yet survive.
‘I’m going to kill you,’ said Hooded Cloak. ‘No one hurts me like that and lives to tell the tale.’ He glanced at Wineskin. ‘Ready?’
‘Aye.’ Wobbly or not, there was a purposeful set to Wineskin’s stance.
‘Wait. I’ll go at him first.’
The two others were only too glad to let Filthy limp forward, holding his stomach with one hand, but somehow wielding his club with the other.
Some men were too stupid to know when to die, thought Tullus, fighting a rising sense of dismay. With a badly wounded but still dangerous Filthy leading the attack, he still had three enemies to face. He was about to pay the ultimate price for his stupidity. I’ve been generous to you in the past, great Mars, he prayed. Let me take at least two of them with me. ‘Come on, you dogs,’ he growled. ‘Who wants to meet the ferryman first?’ His threat made Hooded Cloak and Wineskin hesitate for a heartbeat, no more. They were readying themselves to rush him, Tullus saw, and when they did, it would all be over. There was no shame in calling for help, he decided. Some legionaries might be within earshot.
His mouth opened.
But before he could utter a word, Filthy came at him. Wineskin and Hooded Cloak were two steps behind.
Overhead, a shutter banged open.
Ducking under Filthy’s clumsy club swing, Tullus heard and smelt the foul smelling stream of liquid that poured from above. He stuck Filthy through the gut again, this time running the blade in to the hilt. Giving Filthy a massive head-butt for good measure, he twisted the blade and shoved Filthy backwards, off his sword and into Wineskin, who went stumbling backwards.
‘Bastard!’ Hooded Cloak was still wiping piss and shit from his face when Tullus stabbed him through the throat. Hooded Cloak’s eyes bulged with shock; his lips moved, but no sound came out. Crimson sprayed everywhere – over Tullus, all down Hooded Cloak’s front – as the sword came free. Down he went, into the mud, where he twitched a couple of times and was still.
Tullus’ eyes cast around for Wineskin – and Filthy, who should have died once already. To his relief, Filthy was lying on his back ten paces away. If he wasn’t dead, he would be soon. Wineskin had picked himself up, and was staring at Tullus with wary eyes, clearly torn between revenging his friends and running away.
‘Go,’ ordered Tullus, pointing with his bloodied sword.
With perfect timing, another pot of waste was emptied from above, spattering rank liquid just short of Wineskin’s feet. Hawking a gob of phlegm in Tullus’ direction, he slipped off into the night.
Wary in case fresh ordure be heaped on his head, Tullus shuffled forward a step and called up, ‘I thank you for your assistance.’
There was a loud chuckle. ‘My old bones aren’t up to a fight any more, but I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Are you hurt?’
‘My pride has taken a little bit of battering,’ Tullus replied, ‘but otherwise I am unscathed.’
‘The gods be thanked.’
‘I would be even more in your debt if you could bring some light. Otherwise I shall have lost the contents of my purse in spite of your aid.’
‘Give me a moment,’ called Tullus’ benefactor.
Trying not to step on any of his coins, many of which were glinting in the mud like little gold discs, Tullus moved to stand over Filthy, who still had enough strength to lunge at his feet. Tullus kicked him in the head and then ran him through the chest. That done, he checked the alley again. There was no sign of Wineskin, yet he didn’t relax. Carelessness had almost cost him his life.
Iron screeched off iron as the door bolts were thrown back. The door eased open and in the orange glow of an oil lamp, Tullus saw a slight, grey-haired man clad in an old army tunic. Understanding flooded through him. ‘You’re a veteran.’
The old man’s back straightened. ‘Aye. Twenty-five years I served, in the Germanica. And you, sir?’
‘Twelve so far, in the Rapax. I’ve just been posted to the Eighteenth.’
‘It’s as well I roused myself from my bed, sir,’ said the old man, saluting. ‘Having a centurion murdered on my doorstep would have been terrible.’
‘I’m grateful,’ said Tullus, the awareness of how lucky he’d been beginning to sink in. He stretched out his hand. They shook, and the old man said, ‘Can I invite you inside?’
‘Thank you, but no.’ Tullus explained how he’d thrown his purse, and a little embarrassed, revealed how much had been in it.
‘Twenty-four aurei?’ The old man whistled. ‘That’s a tidy sum.’
‘Aye,’ replied Tullus, knowing he’d be lucky to find more than half of his winnings.
***
In the event, he did better than that. With the help of the old man’s slave, and every oil lamp in the house, they found all but two of the gold coins. Tullus pressed four into the veteran’s hand, ignoring his protests. ‘I insist. You saved my life. If your slave can find the last aurei once it’s light, he’s welcome to them.’
With the two men’s blessings ringing loud in his ears, Tullus returned to the main street, and made his way to the temple without further hindrance. The guards at the entrance gave him strange looks – a moment later, in the bright light cast by the lamps hanging from two huge bronze stands, Tullus realised it was because he was covered in spatters of blood – but did not stand in his way. They were used to such sights and more, he thought with revulsion. Priests of Magna Mater were known to mutilate and even castrate themselves during sacred ceremonies. It was an odd religion by anyone’s reckoning, which explained why, despite its popularity, it was still illegal.
The high-walled complex was square in shape, with a central courtyard surrounded on all sides by rooms. The largest two, which faced one another across the east and west sides of the enclosure, were the shrines proper, one each for Magna Mater and Isis. In front of both sat a large stone altar, where sacrifices were made. The rest of the rooms were given over as storage or sleeping chambers, or used to instruct students enrolled in the priesthood of either god.
The hour might have been growing late, yet the place was packed, and despite the crowd, an eerie atmosphere prevailed. The air was alive to the noise of religious chants, unintelligible cries and loud music. A cockerel squawked as it was plucked from a cage and borne towards one of the altars. Strange smells – incense, and other substances – came off numerous glowing braziers. Shadows moved in the nearby chambers, and it was difficult to know if the sounds that issued from within them were of pain, pleasure or something else altogether. In the dim light, Tullus couldn’t be sure if the dark liquid oozing from the straw underfoot was just mud. He thought it best not to check.
The majority of those present near the shrine to Magna Mater were women. Old or young, well or sick, barren or pregnant, each had a request of the goddess, who was celebrated as a healer and provider of fertility. Some danced, spinning in wild circles to the sound of cymbals played by priestesses in bright coloured robes. Others stood on the spot, wailing their devotion over and over. One woman, silent as a corpse, tore at her cheeks and face with her fingernails. Streaks of blood ran down her neck, staining her dress.
Tullus felt most ill at ease. If this was the norm for an ordinary night, who knew what went on during the goddess’ festivals, when only women and castrated men were permitted to attend. With a respectful bow of his head – despite his reservations, he had no wish to offend Magna Mater – he made his way to the other side of the square. He felt more at home with Isis. She too was revered as a goddess of fertility, but she was also worshipped by sailors, and by those seeking good fortune. It must have been she who had helped him win so much money, Tullus decided. The thought of his coin made him drop a nonchalant hand to his purse. Thieves operated everywhere, even inside temples.
‘Like to know your future?’ The gravelly voice belonged to a skeletally thin soothsayer in a characteristic blunt-peaked hat. He sidled closer, using his lituus to open a path through the crowd. Close up, his doughy skin and pallor could not be mistaken. The man was ill, thought Tullus, hoping it wasn’t catching. He quickened his pace. He had no time for charlatans, in particular ones who were sick.
‘You’ve been in a fight. The other man came off worse. That’s why you’re here.’
‘Wrong,’ said Tullus, although he did want to give thanks for his luck in the alley.
‘Making a journey by sea soon, are you?’
‘No,’ replied Tullus curtly.
The soothsayer wasn’t to be put off. Despite the throng, he somehow kept up with Tullus. ‘Needing to know if your new-born will thrive?’
‘No.’
‘Ah!’ cried the soothsayer. ‘Your woman wants a child in her belly!’
‘Piss off,’ hissed Tullus. He had no woman. The army was work enough.
‘You’re in need of luck then. Luck in your career. Luck with earning your superiors’ respect.’
‘I need nothing from you! Out of my way, maggot,’ ordered Tullus.
‘What a fine officer you make,’ said the soothsayer in an acid tone. ‘So quick to condemn, so quick to assume that every prophecy is a fake.’ He retreated before Tullus’ raised fist, however.
Tullus had almost reached the altar dedicated to Isis when the soothsayer’s voice reached his ears again. ‘Some unexpected good fortune has come your way. The goddess deserves your thanks.’
The fool has worked his way through every possible reason why I’m here, thought Tullus angrily. This had to be the last one.
‘Enjoy it while it lasts. Such things are ever brief.’
The man is so predictable, thought Tullus. Luck lasts for no one. He cast his eye over the caged birds that were for sale as sacrificial offerings. There were no pigs or sheep – they were regarded by the priests of Isis as unclean. In the dark, and with so many worshippers about, it would be unsafe to allow cattle within the shrine, so poultry and songbirds were all that was on offer. A brace of fine cockerels would suffice, he decided.
‘Mud,’ cried the soothsayer.
Ignoring him, Tullus bent to examine the cockerel in the top cage of a stack arranged before a wizened crone seated on a stool. ‘You have a keen eye, sir,’ she wheezed.
‘That’s the best bird in Mogontiacum.’
‘Seas of mud!’ said the soothsayer, louder.
‘Of course it is,’ said Tullus drily. ‘How much?’
‘Two denarii,’ replied the crone.
Tullus had time to let out an incredulous laugh before the soothsayer’s voice interrupted again. It was closer now. ‘I see you and your soldiers surrounded by mud, and bog, and trees, thousands of trees. Blood. There is blood everywhere.’
Tullus’ temper began to overflow. He wheeled, ready to deliver a kick or a punch. ‘Your lies do not scare me. Be gone, dog, or I’ll give you a good hiding.’
It was as if the soothsayer did not hear him. Spit dribbled from the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were rolled back in his head, exposing the whites. It was even more unnerving how he continued to approach Tullus without falling. The crowd melted away from him, people averting their gaze and muttering prayers.
‘Mud. And rain, torrential rain, sent by the gods. There are dead legionaries everywhere,’ intoned the soothsayer. ‘You are trapped, and so are your soldiers.’
Despite himself, Tullus felt unease stir in his belly.
‘My ears are filled with men’s screams. The gods have forsaken them, they cry.’
Unsettled as much by the soothsayer’s trance as his words, Tullus seized the man’s robe with both hands and shook him, hard. ‘Stop this!’
The soothsayer’s eyes twitched, then slid down to their normal position. He blinked, focused on Tullus. ‘W-what was I saying?’
‘You were talking gibberish about mud, and trapped soldiers.’
The soothsayer gave him a blank look.
‘Trying to frighten me, were you?’
The soothsayer raised his hands. ‘I don’t remember what I said.’
‘Don’t try that on me!’ snarled Tullus. ‘What do you take me for – a superstitious fool, who’ll believe anything?’
‘If I gave offence, I’m sorry,’ faltered the soothsayer. ‘I cannot recall a word of what I said. May Isis and Magna Mater strike me down if I lie.’
If the man was shamming, he was doing a fine job of it, thought Tullus, releasing him. He scanned the soothsayer’s face again, but could see no trace of guilt. For the first time, fear caressed the base of Tullus’ spine. Was it possible that the soothsayer had been sent a vision by one of the goddesses? Don’t be stupid, he told himself. The man’s mad, or his brains have been scrambled by fever. ‘Be off with you,’ he barked.
The contrite soothsayer didn’t protest; he just turned away, a pathetic figure now, all skinny arms and bony legs. Tullus felt a twinge of remorse. A swift rummage in his purse produced a sestertius. ‘Here,’ he called. ‘Buy some food. You look starved.’
‘The blessings of the goddesses be upon you,’ cried the soothsayer, seizing the coin. ‘Pay no attention to my ravings. They mean nothing, nothing at all.’
Concealing his disquiet – there were people watching – Tullus forced out a hearty laugh. ‘I don’t need you to tell me that. Now piss off before I take my money back.’
Hours later, his offering to Isis accepted, the walk back to his guesthouse negotiated, Tullus lay in bed, unable to sleep. The soothsayer’s words rolled around his head like stones in a musician’s gourd, their endless noise disquieting and annoying by turn. He had heard many bad prophecies over the years – some directed at others, some at him – but he’d never before been so affected.
It was the wine he’d drunk that had him rattled, Tullus told himself, or else it was delayed shock caused by his near escape in the alley. The strange air in the temple hadn’t helped either. Maybe it was all three. Whatever the reason, the soothsayer had been talking nonsense. Tullus didn’t know a soul who’d ever been given a reliable prophecy – at least one that hadn’t been paid for, in coin.
These certainties did not help him get to sleep.
In the end, Tullus gave up. Hiding the greater part of his winnings under a loose floorboard, he returned to the Sheaf of Wheat in search of Valerius. More wine would help him forget the crazed soothsayer and his fantasies.
So too, he wagered, would Hathor.
Author’s Note
The idea for this short story came to me during a research trip to Germany in November 2014. I was travelling along the Rhine, visiting historical sites and Roman museums, picking up information and getting a feel for the landscape that will feature in my next three novels. These are set on the German frontier of the Roman Empire, and take place during the years AD 9-16. The first book, Eagles at War, is about the notorious battle of the Teutoberg Forest, during which three legions were wiped out. You can read all about it in April 2015. Order the book here.
The central Roman character in the trilogy is Tullus, a man whose history has fascinated me from the first time I wrote about him. As a middle-aged veteran, he would have seen things and been places, if you know what I mean. He would have done things too. Usually, the confines of novels mean that I, the writer, never get to experience what else a character might have done. Yet ideas about people like Tullus still come to me, and I have to live with them, half-formed things that never go away, and never get written.
Things were different last November when I set foot inside the temple to Isis and Magna Mater in the town of Mainz (Mogontiacum). I was so gripped by what I encountered that I knew a story about Tullus visiting this temple would happen.
The modern museum might be set in the most unlikely spot (under the central passage of a busy shopping centre), yet the shrine within is dark, mysterious and more atmospheric than I could have believed. The low-level lighting that only comes on as you enter each new section was eerie; so too was the quavering flute music and chanting that came on. Thanks to my first novel, the odd, bloodthirsty rituals celebrated by those who worshipped Magna Mater were familiar to me, but it was incredible to see original offerings of strange little clay figures (some pierced through with needles), and scraps of lead inscribed with curses written by angry or wronged people 2,000 years ago. My mind went into overdrive, picturing a young Tullus, drunk, wandering down an alleyway and finding this temple. Entering, he would hear a prophecy that he’d discount as entirely mad. Years later, it would come back to haunt him.
The Shrine is the result of my idea. I hope you enjoy it.
Glossary
Augustus: successor to Julius Caesar, and the first Roman emperor.
aurei (sing. aureus): an uncommon gold coin, worth twenty-five denarii.
Borbetomagus: Worms.
Castra Regina: Regensburg.
centurion (in Latin, centurio): the disciplined career officers who formed the backbone of the Roman army.
Danuvius: the River Danube.
denarii (sing. denarius): cast from silver, these were the staple coins of the Roman empire. One denarius was worth four sestertii, or one twenty-fifth of an aureus.
Drusus: Nero Claudius Drusus was a stepson of Augustus, and an excellent military leader who led major campaigns into Germany in the years 12-9 BC. He died at the young age of 29 after an accident on campaign. His monument still stands in Mainz, and reading about the soldiers’ footrace to it merely whetted my appetite to write about Tullus visiting the town.
Fortuna: the goddess of luck and good fortune.
Gallia Belgica: the Roman province to the west of the Rhine, which incorporated Belgium, Luxembourg, and parts of France, Holland and the German Rhineland.
Hathor: an Egyptian goddess of joy, feminine love and motherhood.
Iberian: someone from the Iberian peninsula, modern day Spain and Portugal.
Isis: an Egyptian goddess of fertility, new-born babies, and good fortune. She was held in special regard by women, but was also revered by sailors and slaves. Although distrusted by Augustus, her worship was widespread throughout the empire.
legion – the largest independent unit of the Roman army. At full strength, it consisted of ten cohorts, each comprised of six centuries of eighty men, all of which were led by a centurion. The First Germanica, or ‘German’ legion, the Fifth Alaudae, or ‘Larks’ legion, and the Twenty First Rapax, or ‘Predator’ legion, were units stationed on the Rhine in the late first century BC and early first century AD.
lituus: the curved bronze badge of office carried by soothsayers. Modern bishops’ croziers are no different!
Magna Mater: a strange and mysterious goddess imported to Rome from Asia Minor (Turkey).
Mars: the god of war.
Mogontiacum: modern day Mainz.
optio: the officer who ranked just below a centurion; the second-in-command of a century.
primus pilus: the senior centurion of a legion. A veteran in his forties or fifties, he was also the third-in-command of the legion.
Rhenus: the River Rhine.
sestertius (pl. sestertii): a brass coin that was worth a quarter of a denarius, or one hundredth of an aureus.
tribune (in Latin, tribunus): one of six senior staff officers within a legion.
Vetera: modern day Xanten.
Ben Kane, bestselling author of the Eagles of Rome, Spartacus and Hannibal novels.
Eagles in the Storm released in UK on March 23, 2017.
Aguilas en la tormenta saldra en 2017.
www.benkane.net
Twitter: @benkaneauthor
Facebook: facebook.com/benkanebooks
Eagles in the Storm released in UK on March 23, 2017.
Aguilas en la tormenta saldra en 2017.
www.benkane.net
Twitter: @benkaneauthor
Facebook: facebook.com/benkanebooks
