Deva Tales Read online

  His attention was drawn back to the present as he spotted Centurion Ocratius emerge from the main building, leaning on his vine staff, his face still slightly pale and unwell, though the strength seemingly returning to him rapidly now after the veteran officer’s sojourn in the sick wards.

  With a salute to the centurion and noting the unusually early presence of the tribune, he marched on through the great basilica hall and to the office of the legion’s commander, nodding to the two legionaries on guard there.

  ‘Legionary Attius Celer to see Legate Viator.’

  The guard swung the door sharply open and admitted him to the legate’s office. Entering, Celer came to a halt inside the door and snapped off a sharp salute, fixing his eyes on a point just above the legate’s left shoulder. The old vulture looked up at him and waved a hand slightly.

  ‘Legionary Celer. Good. Close the door and come over here.’

  With a nod, Celer did as he was commanded and then crossed to the legate’s desk, standing at attention. He had only been in this office once before, and being here was nerve-wracking. Ordinary legionaries were only usually sent here for disciplining. Somehow it seemed oppressive and furtive to be so thoroughly sealed in this office with the legate. Viator gave him a long, appraising look, and Celer made sure not to flinch, move, or blink.

  ‘I have been studying your records, Celer.’

  Really? Why?

  ‘They make interesting reading.’

  ‘How so, sir?’

  ‘You are the sort of man the army prizes, Celer. Inflexible in your duty, incorruptible in your position, obedient to the core. I suspect I would not miss my mark if I suggested that your oath to the eagle is the prime factor in your life, yes?’

  ‘My oath to the emperor, to Rome, to my legate, and to the eagle, sir,’ Celer corrected with a straight face, and then bit his tongue at his outspoken words. An unfortunate habit of speaking his mind had cost him a potential promotion to optio the year before, and in front of the legate himself was not a good time to experiment with free speech…

  Viator nodded. ‘A simple yes would have sufficed, Celer. The oath demands your utter obedience to the chain of command, regardless of how distasteful the orders you might receive, as I’m sure you know. But in return, it absolves you of any culpability incurred in the following of those orders.’

  Celer tried to keep his eyes from narrowing. He didn’t like where this conversation was going, but fact was fact, and the oath did indeed mean exactly that. Celer had gained a certain unpopularity with his previous century during Governor Agricola’s Caledonian campaign by refusing to cover for certain improprieties in his unit and revealing them to their commanders. Rules were, after all, rules. What was an army without rules? Little more than a native warband with some fancy armour.

  ‘My loyalty to my legate, to my unit, and to Rome, is unquestionable,’ he said stolidly, ‘I take the oath very seriously, sir.’

  ‘You are also a proven veteran of Agricola’s northern campaign, distinguishing yourself at Mons Graupius.’

  ‘A veteran of the campaign, sir, though my decoration was for the destruction of the Ordovices and the conquest of the island of Mona six years earlier, sir.’

  A flash of annoyance passed across the legate’s tired face.

  ‘The minutiae are unimportant. The fact that you are decorated and apparently utterly trustworthy is the vital thing. I have a task for you, Celer.’

  Here it comes…

  ‘Our remit as soldiers of Rome is to seek out and destroy the empire’s enemies wherever they may be, enemies both external and… internal. Sometimes the fearsome painted men of the north are the most brutal enemy we face, but sometimes our enemy is more insidious and secretive.’

  Visions flashed through Celer’s head for a moment. Word was that after the revolt of the governor of Germania that spring and its brutal suppression on behalf of the emperor, the heads of all those deemed involved in the conspiracy had been displayed on poles above the rostrum in Rome during the stinking summer heat. Cartooned likenesses had been scratched into walls across the empire by the emperor’s secret servants – grisly reminders of the fate of men deemed traitors by the imperial government. And while the soldiers of general Maximus and Procurator Norbanus who had taken those heads had naturally believed themselves to be despatching enemies of Rome, undoubtedly the men who had fought for the rebel governor Saturninus had been equally convinced they served the best interests of Rome. After all, the military oath required loyalty to the emperor, but also to a soldier’s own eagle and his commander. Where did one lay one’s loyalty when the oath pulled one in two directions simultaneously?

  It was said that the emperor Domitian made a new powerful enemy every day, but also that he executed one, so that parity was maintained. It was not said aloud, or in public, mind, for the emperor’s spies could be anywhere.

  Viator seemed to be waiting for him to say something, so Celer cleared his throat.

  ‘We have enemies in Deva, sir?’

  ‘We do. A man apparently Hades-bent on plunging us into civil disorder. Procurator Severus works here to undermine the good rapport we have built with the natives and all the sterling work begun by Governor Agricola and continued by our esteemed Lucullus. We are enjoying the first decade of peace this province has ever experienced, Celer. From the Claudian invasion down through Caratacus, the conquest of the Silures, the revolt of that Iceni bitch, the Brigantian war, those dog-humping druids, and then the Caledonii, we are finally settled with the prospect of peace. No one threatens rebellion or war against us. We have a chance to Romanise this land. To civilise it. And the procurator, for whatever nefarious reasons, is seemingly planning tax rises of such implausibility that even the wealthier natives will not accept them. He drives the locals towards rebellion. And his plans, whatever they are, are specific to Deva and the Twentieth, for he brought nothing but harmony to Glevum and to Venta Silurum, where the Second Augusta are in control. Do you see the danger here?’

  ‘Of a native uprising, sir? Of course. The province cannot take another Boudicca or Venutius.’

  ‘Precisely. It is time the procurator was removed from the board.’

  Murder the procurator?

  ‘Sir, this is too high profile. The procurator…’

  ‘Is an enemy of the state, Celer. He must be removed before he has the chance to finish the job of ruining Britannia. Believe me, I do not consider such an option lightly. I have been trying to find an alternative, and sleep evaded me last night as I pondered my options. One of your fellow legionaries has been looking into the matter for me, but he seems to have been unable to bring to light anything damning, and already the people stir with discontent. Even with access to the man’s private correspondence we have only been able to turn up hints and names, but those names – in particular the mention of one of my officers – are important enough that we must move to halt whatever rot Severus is cultivating. We can no longer afford to move slowly and leave the fate of Deva – and possibly Britannia – in the hands of this man. Today the procurator will be at the arena for the games. You will deal with him while he attends.’

  Celer found himself shaking his head.

  ‘Problem, soldier?’

  ‘The amphitheatre is too public, sir. If this is to be done, it must be somewhere less open.’

  ‘Quite the opposite. You see, as soon as that bloated over-blown clerk dies, suspicion will likely fall upon myself and indirectly upon the Governor. We have the most to lose.’

  And appropriately, since it appears it will be by your design…

  ‘But at the arena,’ Viator continued, ‘I will also be in full view of the people of Deva. Moreover, the procurator has a unit of German mercenaries with him at all times. At the amphitheatre they will be engaged in crowd control, keeping the ordinary people safely back from him. He will be open to attack from the access tunnel, since there should be no people there.’

  Celer nodded slowly. He didn’t
like the idea of this, but on a purely theoretical level, it was an interesting problem to consider. Numerous points occurred to him, and he felt the distinct urge to speak his mind once again, but that was dangerous with a senior officer even under normal circumstances. When considering conspiracy and… assassination…

  The legate noted him struggling to hold his tongue and nodded. ‘Speak freely. If you cannot do so on this matter, you are of no use to me.’

  Celer licked dry lips. ‘You would need to have that tunnel secured and barred to the public, sir, so that only the procurator and his people use it, else he will naturally place one of his Germans there and nullify your plan. You would have to have whatever legionaries are guarding the tunnel gates absent whenever the assassin needed to be in and out. You would have to arrange the seating so that the governor is close to the tunnel and not obscured by any of his own people. You would need to attract the man’s attention and get him down to the tunnel where he could be dealt with without the entire crowd watching – though that last is not too difficult to arrange.’

  ‘Nor is the rest,’ the legate murmured. ‘I have placed Tribune Longus in charge of today’s arrangements, but it is I who has sponsored today’s games, and I can have any arrangements made in advance. You will move down into the eastern access tunnel during the morning, while the crew are initially setting up and before Longus has the men moved into position to guard the tunnel. There is a storage niche where the interior staircase doubles back on itself. You can hide in there until it is time for you to move.’

  Celer nodded. His heart felt like lead in his chest.

  ‘Do you have anything else to say or ask?’

  Celer stood silent, shaking his head slowly, not truly trusting himself to speak.

  ‘In which case, keep yourself in expedite – just tunic, belt and dagger – and be at the amphitheatre’s eastern gate when the First Watch call is still echoing.’

  Celer nodded his head, remaining still, trying to keep his face from displaying what was going on behind it.

  ‘Is there a problem, legionary?’

  Yes. Yes, there was. For the love of Jove, yes there was a problem.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then snap to it, soldier. I’m a busy man. Much to do.’

  Yes. Organise murders and coups, for a start…

  But refusing the order of a senior officer would be not only a career-breaking move, but almost certainly an arm, leg, back, and head breaking one too. Celer saluted slowly, carefully, and turned, unlatching the door and striding from the office, past the two blissfully ignorant guards, through the great hall and out into the pre-dawn gloom, a faint chill still to the air. The brilliant moonlight of the previous evening had disappeared behind a thin covering of cloud, which had brought a drop in temperature.

  It was nothing, though, compared to the drop in his blood’s temperature. Attius Celer was not a man bent double under the weight of ethical quandaries. He was a soldier, and a soldier had orders and duties which left precious little room for ethics and morals.

  But it did not take an ethical soul to suffer quandaries. What happened when your oath to your legate and his eagle conflicted with your identical oath to Rome and her emperor? For Viator commanded the Twentieth without question and was his most senior officer, and yet Procurator Severus was – alongside Governor Lucullus – the emperor’s direct representative in Britannia, appointed by him and ratified by the Roman senate.

  Celer looked up at the inky violet sky. Almost an hour to first watch. Plenty of time.

  Following the only sure path his troubled heart could provide, he set out for the fortress’ south gate and the bridge over the snaking river. Near the bridge’s north abutment he came to a halt, alone in the pre-dawn gloom. A sandstone carving of Minerva – goddess of war and wisdom – stood by the heavy wall, a relic from the first occupation of the fort by the Second Adiutrix. Celer reached out reverently, running his hand over the eye-holes in the goddess’ raised Corinthian-style helmet, almost worn away by a decade of such devotions. Small offerings lay on the plinth at the base, including money and food that even the homeless starving beggars of the settlement would not touch for fear of offending Deva’s patron goddess.

  ‘Great Minerva, what am I to do? Which loyalty do I follow and whose oath must I betray? My heart tells me that taking the life of a properly-appointed imperial official is not the act of a loyal son of Rome, but my loyalty to the legate must also be inviolable. And people say that the emperor becomes more rabid and hateful by the year, in the manner of old Tiberius, so what of the men he appoints? This is not a decision I can make. Grace me with your wisdom, divine lady.’

  Bending, he placed the five silver coins he had carried enfolded in his palm on the plinth.

  ‘Better to save that. Soon you will be paying a crippling tax on everything… even prayer.’

  Startled, having believed himself alone, Celer straightened and turned to see a rather well-appointed woman with a wry smile in the company of several men, one a wizened, studious-looking slave, the others clearly hired guards.

  ‘I… I have enough.’ It was a feeble reply, but his train of thought had been utterly knocked askew and he could think of no appropriate reply. Had she heard his quandary? The woman gave a light laugh that for some reason slightly unnerved him, and then strode from the town and across the bridge towards the outlying settlements. The world around Celer seemed to have brightened noticeably in that brief moment, and for a strange heartbeat he thought it an effect of the woman. But no. The sun was rising, and soon the call would go up for the First Watch. His time was almost up.

  A thought struck him, and he furrowed his brow as he examined the surprisingly expressive worn sandstone face.

  ‘Was that your answer? It was, wasn’t it? The legate tasks me with a hateful mission, but even the worst of undertakings can be for the good from time to time. I owe my allegiance primarily to the legate and not to the corrupt official of a…’

  Potentially unstable emperor. Now that could not be said aloud!

  The strain on his heart felt eased and the sky seemed to lighten again a fraction. Minerva had answered him, and he knew now what he must do. Less than half an hour now to First Watch. Just enough time to hurry back to the barracks, slip out of his mail shirt, throw on a cloak, and scurry back to the amphitheatre. The glass had turned and the sand was slipping away.

  * * *

  Attius Celer shivered. It was not cold – far from it, in fact, the overcast having held down the heat that last night’s starry sky had threatened to drain. But here in the amphitheatre tunnel, in the dark and the damp, there was a slight chill. Or was that something entirely unconnected with the weather and building conditions?

  There were eight external entrances to the amphitheatre at the top seating rows, but only four great arches at ground level, and two of those gave access straight to the sand for the victims and entertainers. The other two granted passage to the front rows of seats on the lowest tiers, close to the blood and the action. That at the west had been sealed off by Tribune Longus, granting the legate access to his seat without having to negotiate the crowd, that at the east performing the same job for the procurator. The rest of the rabble watching the games would filter down from the stairwells at the top rows, guards keeping them away from the reserved seating of the two important personages present.

  Celer had arrived early enough to slip into position before Longus arrived and posted guards, and had lurked in the shadowy alcove as the procurator and his party passed. They had been accompanied by a group of hairy, well-armed German bodyguards making a good show of looking attentive, and yet totally failing to spot the cloaked assassin lurking in the shadows. The temptation to strike had been strong as he watched them pass. He’d almost certainly have died, of course, in the brutal aftermath of Germanic bloodshed. But he would likely have put his knife into that neck as it passed and done his duty to his legate.

  What it had been then that had sta
yed his hand, he could not say. It certainly wasn’t the fear of failure – he was sure he could succeed – nor of death – he would accept it willingly for success in his duty, and he would not be captured and interrogated, revealing his seniors’ names, for he knew he could put his dagger through himself first.

  So what had stopped him?

  The sounds of the gladiatorial bouts roared above the arena, the crowd’s shouting ebbing and flowing with the action. A series of crashes and clangs rang out, the crowd oohing and ahhing in response. Celer knew the time was almost up. This was the last bout of the day and was the one that kept everyone riveted. That local Greek retiarius who was always showing off against some big iron-clad thug from Germania. And from the rapidity of blows it sounded like it was rising to a climax. Soon that fight would be over and the opportunity gone.

  He had practiced his role in his head time and again over the past few hours.

  He was a messenger from the mansio. There had been a break-in at the procurator’s rooms. He could appear in the tunnel’s arch and call to the official. As a student of human nature, he felt certain that the procurator would forget what was going on around him and immediately move to deal with this fresh disaster. He was equally convinced that the man would throw caution to the wind at such news and hurry down into the tunnel to speak to the messenger before his Germans could get there.

  And yet, just as when he’d watched them go past earlier, something kept his tongue in check.

  He craned to see what was going on. The parapet of the arena wall that separated spectator from fighter was just enough from this angle to hide the action on the sand, but he could just see the procurator, seated ten paces to his left in a wide area of cleared seating, and the legate across the arena, watching intently, but not watching the fighting…