Джерейнт Джонс - Legion

A warm wind came to our nostrils as we weaved between the olive trees. There was salt in it – we were nearing the sea. As we crested the ridge, I saw it laid out before us in its blue brilliance. Glittering water, studded with verdant green islands that clung to the coast like crocodiles’ spines.

It was the most beautiful place in the world. I had thought so as a child, and I thought so now. I don’t know how long I gazed at the shimmering deep, picturing Rome beyond the sea, and what had happened in that unseen city’s name, but finally I dropped from the saddle, my sandals hitting the soil that had been a sanctuary to me in another life. It was the refuge of brothers. Our escape when Marcus and I had not wanted to do our lessons or chores. We would sit here; we would talk. His dreams were of conquest, mine of simple happiness. He talked of Rome and, one day, I began talking of her.

‘Beatha…’

Tears filled my eyes as soon as they fell on the stones that marked her grave. I did not even think to tie Balius off, instead sinking to my knees beside the woman that I loved.

I kissed the stone. ‘ Beatha. ’

I kissed her .

‘I’ve come home.’

I sat gazing at the stones that formed the tomb of the woman I loved most and above all others. She had been untainted in a world of wickedness, and though I had adored her purity as she lived, I had only come to truly understand it when she died, and I began to live the savagery that truly defined our empire. I realized now that I had been shielded by my family. Shielded by my town. But above all, I had been shielded by this woman. Hope and purpose had coursed through my veins, hotter than my blood. In a world of despondency, I had been a bastion of happiness. Beatha was my wall. When she died, my defences crumbled.

I looked back at the sea. It was bright in the sunlight, and the hillside about me was a concert of gentle breeze and birdsong. I had chosen well for her in this, at least. Her resting place was fitting of her spirit. And now, it would be a home for my brother.

Balius was happily chewing grass. I called him over, then unloaded the sacks that were tied off on his chestnut flanks. I saw something in the animal’s eyes as I tethered him to a tree. I put a hand on his head, and he nuzzled into me. How did he know?

I placed a pick beside the sacks. The last time I had dug into this hillside I had used stone, and my bare hands. My fingers had been bloody long before they gripped my father’s throat.

I hefted the tool above my head and set about digging Octavius’s grave.

The hill’s soil was rich, and I’d soon dug deep enough to bury the parts of my friend that I had recovered from the mountains. I gathered stone. Placed them atop the turned earth. I wiped sweat from my face, and sat between the graves of two people I loved deeply.

‘Look after each other,’ I made them promise.

I wanted to stay. I wanted to lie down between them, and never rise.

But Marcus was in the mountains, and Arminius was in the town. One needed to be rescued from the dark pit that he’d fallen into, and the other held the rope to do it.

‘I’ll be back,’ I swore, kissing Beatha’s stone. ‘I love you.’

I rode hard from the hillside before I could change my mind. Behind me, a brave soldier stood watch over the sea, and over the woman I had loved. For once in my life, I knew that I had done something right.

Then, as I spurred my horse towards the town, I thought back to the day of my greatest failure.

I pushed open the doorway and stepped into the courtyard. Sunlight bounced back from the white walls. Alongside paths of painted tiles, perfect lines of flowers shimmered in their ranks like armoured soldiers.

I walked to the centre of the square garden, dipping my hand into the cool water of the pond. As I moved my eyes searched for an ambush that I hoped would come swiftly.

There was nothing.

I looked into the pond’s calming waters. In the reflection I saw a handsome young man, skin darkened by sun, eyes set alight by life.

I smiled. I was enjoying this game.

I went through the house room by room. It was quiet. My father had gone to visit friends and were not expected back until later that night, when they would be soaked with wine and witless. The slaves had been relieved of their duties for the day, and so my footsteps echoed in the deserted building. There was haste in my footfalls; I wanted to make use of this unexpected privacy.

Twice I searched rooms where window veils played gently with the ocean breeze, dappled light falling across furniture polished as dark as my father’s beard. Twice I searched, and twice I was beaten.

I left the house and walked on to the street. I could feel the heat through my sandals, but the breeze drew its fingers across my neck like a caress. A prelude to what I searched for.

Despite the heat, I ran. Sweat began to stain my tunic, but I was young. An athlete. My breath was steady and my limbs were loose. The coast appeared before me, golden sand and a glittering sea. Hot sand pushed between my toes. I looked left and right along a beach that knew my deepest secret.

I was alone. The game was wearing on me, but I was competitive. No matter the sport, no matter the challenge, I did not lose.

I looked at the ocean. The wet prow of a galley glowed golden as the oars beat their way out to sea. I took a moment to indulge my imagination, thinking of her destination. Of Rome. Of endless possibility.

The ship had left the port of my home town, and now I knew that this was where the game would end.

I ran along the sand, stamping it from my feet as I reached the paved streets, picking my way between olive-skinned merchants and haggling slaves. A child caught my eye, and smiled for a coin. I threw him two. I wanted my happiness to be a disease. Contagious. I wanted everyone in the port to feel the same thumping heartbeat of anticipation as I did. The same thrill that flushed my skin, and carried me like an emperor above the heads of those around me.

I knew where the game would end – on the stone pier that drove out into the ocean. It was the closest point we had to Rome. A place where we would sit and dream.

Today would be the day that dream became reality. Today, when the game ended, a life would begin in its place – a priest would see to that. A priest, and a ship, and a fair wind to hurry our love to a distant shore.

I turned a final corner between fishing baskets, the smell of salt and olive oil filling my nostrils, and then I saw the pier. It was a scrum of men, women and children. Sailors loaded a galley that was sitting deep as its hull was filled. Old men cast lines into the water for their dinner. The pier was packed, and yet to my eyes it was empty.

Beatha wasn’t there.

Somehow, I had lost the game.

I turned for home. Deflated, my eyes were on the cobblestones as I walked into a thick chest..

‘Father?’ I asked, confused. Confused because he was supposed to be with his friends. Confused because, for the first time in my life, the man looked down at me with disappointment.

‘Corvus,’ he said, and I heard a sentence in that word.

I didn’t dare ask what. Instead, I followed like a shamed dog in the big man’s wake. He strode to our family home. He was silent the entire way, but the rigidity of his posture shouted volumes – I had never seen him like this. My father was not a warm man, but now he seemed so… dangerous.

As we walked I hoped that I would see her. Catch a glimpse. I hoped somehow that I could still win the game. I was in trouble, that much was clear, but there was not a shadow of worry in my mind that my father knew about what I had been planning. This was something else – something worrying, but something that could be survived.