Dark Eagle, page 2
‘It was,’ replied Umber, ‘but the best is yet to come.’ He lifted the goblet to again breathe in its heady aroma before lifting it to propose a toast.
‘To old friends and new hangovers.’
Both men sipped their drinks, each keenly aware that there was business yet to discuss and the night was far too young to be getting drunk. The flavoursome wine was full of dark fruits and obviously potent, but it cried out for warm water, as was the usual tradition.
‘By the gods,’ said Umber, ‘that is superb. You must tell me the location of the vendor and I will have my servants buy his entire stock.’
‘Why not buy the vineyard?’ said Lepidus. ‘I’m sure you can afford it.
‘I probably can,’ said Umber, ‘but winemaking is an artform in itself and needs no meddling from the likes of me or any other politician for that matter.’
They both settled back in their chairs enjoying the effects of the wine as it made its way through their bodies. For the next hour or so they exchanged stories, updating each other on what had been happening in their lives since last they met but eventually, both knew it was time for the niceties to end and for the real reason for Lepidus’s visit to be discussed.
‘So,’ said the legate eventually, ‘all this has been very luxurious, my friend, but you did not summons me here from deepest darkest Gallia to share memories and that wonderful meal. What can I do for you?’
‘You are correct, of course,’ said Umber, ‘but I can assure you, I have had the most wonderful evening, and we should do it more often.’ He paused and looked up at the legate. ‘Lepidus,’ he continued, ‘I will get straight to the point. I have become aware that you have engendered a certain type of unit within your legion, one that perhaps does not conform to the ideals of unified Roman strategy or training. A force that operates outside the bounds of any normal military boundaries or expectations.’
‘Could you expand further? asked the legate. ‘I’m unsure what you mean.’
‘I am talking about a group of men who have been given total autonomy to do whatever they have to do to achieve a mission without any outside influence, direction or even military support.’
‘Do you mean my exploratores?’ asked Lepidus. ‘For if you do, I can confirm they are a very highly skilled unit and ensure my legion is as safe as it can be on a daily basis. We are very proud of them and what they do.’
‘All legions have exploratores,’ replied Umber, ‘some even have speculators, but these rumours I have been hearing are about something completely different. They talk of a group of men who stay in the shadows without fear of oversight, discipline or even punishment should they exceed their responsibilities.’
‘It sounds intriguing,’ said Lepidus, taking a sip of his wine. ‘Who is it that spreads these rumours?’
‘Their names are unimportant,’ said Umber, ‘but I trust them enough to believe there is no smoke without flame.’
‘I can assure you,’ said Lepidus, ‘that I have no such men on the role within my legion.’
‘I am sure you do not,’ said Umber, ‘but that does not mean they do not exist. Such a force, by its very nature, would have to remain anonymous, especially to the other men.’
‘Let us just assume for a moment that you are correct,’ said Lepidus, ‘why would it concern the senate? I am a legate who’s only role is to manage my legion to the best of my ability and to deliver success to the emperor. How I do it is, and has always been, up to me. Is that not still the case?’
‘So, you admit there is such a unit?’
‘I did not say that,’ said Lepidus, ‘I am only seeking to establish the motive for this line of questioning.’
‘Look,’ said Umber. ‘You are a lifelong friend, and I did not drag you all the way here to make you defend any actions you may have taken on behalf of Rome. The fact is that we have a tricky situation on our hands, one that needs resolving urgently and if what I am hearing is true, then you may be just the man to help us out.’
Lepidus stared at the senator silently. They were indeed lifelong friends, but Umber was asking him to reveal something he had vowed never to do, and he was not sure how much, if anything he should say. Umber was now a politician, and they were as slippery as eels when it came to looking after their own best interests.
‘Why do you not tell me the problem first,’ said Lepidus, ‘and I will tell you if I can help?’
‘Alas, I must be careful who I unveil this to,’ said Umber, ‘if any of this information falls into the wrong hands, it could cause the deaths of countless legionaries across the empire.’
‘Do you not trust me?’
‘I do, but this is bigger than both of us.’
‘In that case, I cannot help you,’ replied Lepidus. ‘You are asking me about whether a unit that may or may not exist can help resolve a problem that I am not allowed to know about. How can I possibly make a judgement?’
Uber leaned back to gather his thoughts before replying.
‘If I tell you and it gets out,’ he said eventually, ‘your liberty could be at risk, even your life and the lives of your family. Mine too, for that matter, so if you insist on hearing the details, I will share them with you, but first I must know if such men exist for if they do not, then we can just end the conversation right now and enjoy the rest of the wine.’
It was Lepidus’s turn to balance up the options. They were at a stalemate and the conversation could go no further unless one of them gave way. Ordinarily he would deny any knowledge whatsoever, but the fact that many legionaries could die had struck a nerve and he knew that if there was anything he could do to avoid that situation, then it was not just his duty but also his moral obligation to do so.
‘Senator Umber,’ he said eventually, ‘the description that you gave me a few moments ago seems fanciful and a little extreme and I will neither admit nor deny that such men exist. But what I will say is that as Legates, we often have to resort to extreme measures to protect Rome’s affairs and I do not deny that sometimes I push the boundaries of what may be seen as acceptable to others. If that is an adequate statement, then I stand ready to help you, if I can. If I cannot, then I swear to the gods that I will never mention this conversation again.’
‘So, such a force exists?’ asked Umber again, pressing for confirmation.
‘You have had my answer,’ said Lepidus, ‘the responsibility for what happens next is now entirely in your hands.’
‘So be it,’ said Umber, ‘but I reiterate that what I am about to tell you cannot leave this room. You must tell nobody, upon pain of death. Do you understand?’
‘I do.’
‘Then listen carefully, my friend, for this information is not even known to the emperor.’
----
Chapter Two
Hispana
When Prefect Octavius, one of Caligula’s closest advisors, had sent him to serve the rest of his life as a galley-slave, Centurion Marcus Antonius Maecilius had thought his life was over. First, he had been severely beaten by men of his own cohort, but the pain of the thrashing was nothing compared to the shouts of ‘deserter’ and ‘coward’ that rained upon him as he was dragged from the parade square, covered with the spit of men he had once called comrades.
At the docks in Tarraco in Hispana, he was separated from the other prisoners and while the slaves were herded into the belly of merchant ships to be sold around the empire, Marcus was dragged onto a bireme and locked in a crate as the ship prepared to make sail.
All around him the deck was a hive of activity and soon he could feel the ship moving as it headed out into the open sea. For days he was virtually ignored, with only the odd crust of stale bread dropped into his crate along with an occasional jug of water poured through the slats. Despite his entreaties, the crew acted as if he wasn’t there, and it was only when the smell of his filth became overpowering did someone eventually pull open the door of the makeshift prison. Blinding sunlight flooded in, and Marcus shielded his eyes, squinting against the brightness as rough hands dragged him out, his weakened body a dead weight.
Blinking rapidly, he looked up to see a group of marinarii staring back at him. They were still his jailers, but relief washed over him as he took his first deep breath of salty sea air.
‘Stand up,’ said one of the sailors, his voice strangely calm, and Marcus got to his feet, slowly stretching his aching back after being curled up in a ball for so long. His hands were tied tightly with rope and his face held a beard of over a month. What remained of his tunic was in rags after so long in captivity in Hispana and his stink made some of the marinarii step back in disgust. Overall, he was a pathetic example of a man and a mere shadow of the legionary he had once been. Another man approached and Marcus could see that he was a centurion, the rank he had once born himself with so much pride.
‘He stinks,’ said the centurion, ‘clean him up.’
Two of the sailors secured the end of a rope around the ties on his wrists before dragging him to the side of the deck. Marcus suddenly realised what they intended to do but it was too late and as he struggled, they lifted him up and threw him overboard into the freezing water of the Mare Nostrum.
The impact knocked the wind from his lungs and as the slack of the rope was taken up, his arms felt as if they had been yanked out of their sockets. He cried out in pain, only to have his mouth filled with cold salty water and he coughed violently as he was dragged through the waves. Up above, the sailors roared with laughter as he fought uselessly against the swell of the sea. He struggled to catch a breath and finally, just as he thought he would surely drown, he found himself being dragged back aboard and landed on the deck like a landed fish, gasping for breath.
As he lay there, the centurion approached again. In his right hand he held his vitis, the vine stick that not only symbolised his authority but was also used for meting out punishment to anyone deserving to be disciplined.
‘Stand up,’ he said and once again, Marcus struggled to his feet, shivering violently in the cold morning breeze. The centurion placed the vitis under Marcus’ chin, forcing his head upward to meet his gaze.
‘So, you are the deserter,’ he said with interest.
‘I am not a deserter,’ said Marcus.
The vine stick thwacked across Marcus’s head without warning, and he fell to his knees in pain.
‘I did not tell you to speak,’ said the centurion, ‘get up.’
Marcus got to his feet again as the centurion looked his prisoner up and down with disgust.
‘Where are you from?’ he asked suddenly.
‘The province of Picenum.’
‘And you are a trained Legionary?’
‘I am.’
‘What unit?’
‘Legio II Augusta, stationed in the region of Gallia Aquitania.’
‘Have you seen battle?’
‘On many occasions.’
‘Yet the last time you ran?’
‘I did not run. My command was slaughtered but a few of us managed to escape by plunging into a river.’
‘So, you chose life while the rest of your men died. That sounds like desertion to me.’
‘I had no choice. The stupidity of an attached officer caused a fight we could not win. My men fought bravely but we were vastly outnumbered and although some of us escaped, many good men died that day. Back in Rome, his lies transferred the blame onto me, condemning me to a life of punishment and I swore to the gods I would spend the rest of my life seeking him out so he would die by my hands. That vow still stands.’
‘I fear that could be a long time away, if ever,’ replied the centurion, ‘Octavius has entrusted your confinement to my command and that means you will serve a minimum of twenty-six years, if you last that long.’
‘If I last that long, then in the twenty-seventh year I will carry out my vow,’ replied Marcus.
‘An admirable vow,’ said the centurion, ‘but one without chance of fulfilment. Your focus now should be how to survive on this ship. What are you known by?’
‘My name is Marcus Antonius Maecilius.’
‘Well, Maecilius, tell me how you see your fate on this ship?’
Marcus sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
‘To die a death no man should endure.’
‘And what death do you refer to?’
‘Chained to an oar as the ship sinks to the bottom of Poseidon’s realm.’
‘And the cause?’
‘Enemy action, storms, a god’s curse, it matters not. The outcome is the same.’
‘Do you fear death, Maecilius?’
‘Only the one described. I would rather die a thousand times at the end of a heathen sword.’
‘Surely death is death?’
‘There is honour in blood,’ said Marcus. ‘There is no honour dying like a slave.’
‘Can you fight?’
‘I can.’
The centurion paused and stared at Marcus before speaking again.
‘Cut him loose,’ he said.
One of the soldiers did as he was bid, and Marcus finally rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation.
‘I am not your judge, Maecilius,’ said the centurion. ‘just your jailer and I care not about your past. My job is to serve Rome and protect this bireme alongside those who serve on, and beneath her decks. There are no slaves on this ship, every man on board is either a serving legionary, a marinarii, or a freedman, all of whom I trust with my life, even those at the oars. However, that trust is not simply given and needs to be earned on both sides. One thing that can be decided on immediately is your ability.’ He turned to one of the legionaries. ‘Give him your gladius.’
The soldier drew his sword and handed it hilt first to Marcus.
‘Defend yourself, Maecilius,’ said the centurion and without any more warning fell upon him with his own blade.
Marcus was shocked and defended himself frantically, and as he staggered back, deflecting the centurion’s swings, his mind raced, assessing the situation. The gladius was designed as a stabbing weapon and was far more effective close up, but if he moved in, he was opening himself up to the other man’s strength. In his weakened state, he needed an advantage, and without warning, he ducked the next swing from his opponent and ran to one side before punching one of the unsuspecting guards full in the face, causing him to fall to the deck. He leaned down and wrestled the shield from the dazed soldier’s grasp before spinning around once more to face his attacker. This time there was a gleam in his eye. It was how he had been trained and how he had taken many lives on the field of battle, gladius in his right hand and scutum in his left, the large military shield designed not just as a means of defence but as weapon in its own right.
With renewed vigour he launched a counterattack and the crew walked over to watch the fight unfold. Marcus employed the tactics he had learned in Gallia and had used many times since against the enemy. Step forward, punch with the scutum and follow up with a shoulder height thrust with his gladius. Alongside other legionaries, the tactic had been unstoppable against the enemies of Rome for hundreds of years, but there was one type of enemy who knew exactly how to cope with the regimented attack, fellow Romans.
The centurion twisted and turned, avoiding every thrust from Marcus’s blade yet keeping his opponent’s shield arm busy with strikes of his own. Marcus soon realised that against such a man and without others at his side, his own shield had become a hindrance, and it was only a matter of time before he would tire. He knew he had no option and quickly stepped back before discarding the scutum and wiping the sweat from his eyes.
‘A good move, Maecilius,’ said the centurion. ‘You are not on the front line now and the scutum offers limited advantage. Now, let’s see what you have really got.’ With renewed energy he fell upon Marcus, raining blow after blow about his head with such speed and accuracy, Marcus hardly had time to defend himself, let alone launch a counterattack. Slowly he was forced to the back of the boat until he could retreat no more and as his focus altered to avoid falling into the grey sea far below, his concentration failed for the briefest of moments and he found the point of the centurion’s blade against his throat.
Time stood still and Marcus focussed on a bead of sweat running down his opponent’s face, matching the trickle of blood he knew was trickling down his own neck from the point of the blade.
‘You fought well, Maecilius,’ said the centurion. ‘A few too many drilled moves for my liking but I have seen enough to settle my mind.’ He withdrew his gladius and sheathed it in the scabbard hanging from his belt.
‘There is a place here for you here,’ he said, ‘but there is a price to be paid. You can join my crew as a legionary and be afforded the same trust as everyone else, but in return I demand loyalty. I was told you are a dishonourable man, but I make my own decisions in these matters. By withdrawing my sword, I have spared your life and if there is a glimmer of honour in your body you will honour that debt.’ He looked around. ‘Someone sort him out with equipment and a billet,’ he ordered, ‘and train him in the ways of the bireme.’ He turned back to face Marcus. ‘Learn fast, Maecilius, we will talk more tomorrow.’
Marcus watched him go before stepping down from the edge of the ship back onto the deck. A soldier approached nursing an aching jaw where Marcus had punched him moments earlier. Marcus tensed but the feeling eased as the soldier held out his arm in greeting.
‘I am Valerius,’ said the soldier.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Marcus, pointing at the bruise beginning to appear on the man’s jaw.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Valerius, ‘it’s my own fault for not being alert. It won’t happen again.’
‘Who was that?’ asked Marcus nodding toward the retreating centurion.
‘That was Centurion Rufius,’ said Valerius. ‘You did well against him, but I have never seen him bettered.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Hard but fair,’ said Valerius, ‘and I’ve served under much worse. What do you know about life aboard a bireme?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then get cleaned up, and I’ll teach you what you need to know.’
