Anthony Riches - Wounds of Honour

‘Dubnus?’

‘Yes.’

‘What will I do when we reach the Hill?’

‘Rufius has a plan. He’ll tell us when we meet.’

‘When will we meet again?’

The Briton shrugged indifferently.

‘Somewhere on the road north. Let’s eat that meat before it burns.’

He scraped the horsemeat from the spit and on to his wooden plate with a swift movement of his dagger, dividing it equally before passing one portion to the Roman. Marcus nodded his thanks, his nostrils flaring in anticipation of the meal as he gingerly sank his teeth into the hot meat, eating the first mouthful open mouthed to avoid burning his palate. The taste was divine after a day’s hard exercise without food. Fat ran down his chin unnoticed as he ate. He nodded at Dubnus in between mouthfuls.

‘I never expected to be eating horse… or for it to taste so good.’

The Briton swallowed a mouthful of his own portion.

‘You’ll be surprised what you can do when you have to. Now it’s your turn to speak of your past. Tell me about your father.’

Marcus thought for a moment, chewing reflectively on his meat.

‘He was a good man, I think, but he never learned how to keep his thoughts private, even when they were a danger to him. Not even when my mother threatened to take the children to her sister’s house in Naples if he didn’t stop goading the emperor. His views were dreadfully old fashioned. He believed that imperial rule was a dead end for Rome, doomed to produce ever more feeble leaders until the whole thing came crashing down. He believed that a republic, and rule by the Senate, voted into power by the people, was the only answer. My uncle Condianus once told me that his brother was too liberal with his opinions, too quick to share his beliefs. He told me that my father mistook the indulgence of the last emperor for approval, and mistakenly believed that the old man would come to renounce the throne and restore the Republic. Which, of course, was never going to happen. Uncle Condianus feared it would lead to all our deaths, but I suppose I could never quite believe that his fears were justified…’

He paused for a moment, remembering.

‘All the time the storm clouds were gathering over us, and I never knew it was happening. Or wanted to know, I suppose. I did try to speak to my father a few days before I was sent away on this fool’s errand, after a dinner to celebrate my sister’s birthday. We sat down for a cup of wine together after the meal, and it all came out again. His disgust for the emperor, his hopes of restoring the Republic. I warned him to be more careful with his views, that the new emperor wouldn’t necessarily share his father’s tolerance. I told him that he certainly shouldn’t be speaking ill of the throne to a man sworn to protect its occupant with his life… but of course he wouldn’t listen. All he would say was that he thought it was a bit rich for me to be warning him about loyalty to the emperor when it was his money that had put me in my fine uniform. And that was that.’

Dubnus nodded, snorting quiet laughter past a mouthful of meat.

‘Fathers. They always have a way to put you in your place, no matter how big your boots get.’

They shared a quiet moment before Dubnus broke the spell by pointing to Marcus’s feet.

‘Show me your blisters.’

Marcus put down his plate and examined the sores, swollen with fluid from the day’s friction against rough footwear.

‘You won’t be able to walk tomorrow unless we do something with these. Here.’

Marcus looked at the knife questioningly.

‘Do what the legionaries do. Pinch the blisters, slice off the top and expose new skin beneath. It’ll hurt for a moment or two once you get walking, then you’ll feel nothing much. After a day or two you’ll start to grow leather. Then get some sleep. We’ll watch for two hours at a time, and keep the fire burning.’

Marcus did as he was bidden, smarting as the raw flesh beneath his blisters protested at its exposure. He curled up in his blankets underneath the heavy cape, and lay for a moment listening to the howling of distant wolves hunting in the hills about them. There was comfort to be taken from the fire’s protective circle of light, and from Dubnus’s reassuring bulk as the Briton sat out the first watch, before sleep took him. When his time to watch the fire came it was uneventful enough, apart from tossing the occasional branch on to the blaze, and fighting off his urge to sleep. He was petrified that he would make a fool of himself in front of the Briton.

At dawn the next morning, they were ready to move. Dubnus carefully brushed the fire’s ashes away into the grass with his feet before spreading fresh earth over the burnt ground, cautious despite his eagerness to move on. He made one last critical examination of their surroundings then turned away, satisfied with his precautions.

‘We weren’t here. March.’

Marcus forced his protesting leg muscles up to Dubnus’s speed, realising with dismay after a moment of torture that while the other man was setting a slow pace, he was gradually accelerating their rate of progress. Gritting his teeth and digging into his willpower to match his stride, he searched for something to distract him from the physical torment. Memories of Rome that he had previously suppressed flooded back to fill the emptiness created by exhaustion, and he stopped in his tracks, resting his hands on his knees as the memories cascaded out from the place into which he had roughly pushed them in the aftermath of his arrest and escape.

His older sisters taking turns to amuse him with rag dolls as a toddler. His younger brother Gaius playing with the cup and ball he’d given the ten-year-old as a present, turning excitedly to grin his thanks. The girls would likely be dead by now, according to Rufius, quite possibly horribly so, and it was inescapable that the boy would have been killed out of hand. A family traceable back to the time of the Second Punic War simply expunged from existence. A pair of booted feet appeared in his vision. He spoke without raising his gaze.

‘Kill me now, Briton, save us both the trouble of dragging my weary body across this ghastly land. I have little enough reason to live…’

A powerful grip took Marcus’s rough shirt, pulling him up to stare into the warrior’s grey eyes. Dubnus held him there for a moment, looking deep into his soul through its only window on the world.

‘You grieve for your family. I told you before, it’s right to grieve, at the right time. Grieve now, and say farewell now. I’m marching north, whether you come or not.’

Grief and rage tautened Marcus’s jaw, making him force out his words between gritted teeth.

‘They’re all dead, Dubnus, my father, my mother, sisters. My little brother!’

‘So Rufius told me. Was your father stupid?’

‘What?’

‘When you talked about your father last night it was clear that he couldn’t betray his principles, but was he a stupid man? Unwise? Lacking in intelligence?’

Marcus thought hard, grateful for something other than death on which to ponder. On balance, while being the first to accept that he was not the soldier his grandfather had been, his father had been no kind of fool. Bribing a praetorian tribune to send his son away before the impending storm broke proved that.

‘No… I believe he was not.’

‘He sent you to safety. Perhaps he did the same with his other children?’

Marcus felt his heart lift a little at the possibility.

‘Perhaps… but…’

‘But?’

‘But I have to assume that my entire family is gone now, and that I’m all that’s left.’

‘So you are the family now. You’re the only keeper of your family’s blood. And so…?’