Dark North

Fourteen

When Rufio and Trelawna came ashore, they were on the Armorican side of the Loire estuary. To the rear of them, the drifting waters were lost in purple gloom. But ahead of them, the rise of the land was pock-marked with campfires, spreading out in every direction for as far as the eye could see.

Trelawna descended the gangplank with Gerta, the only servant she’d brought. Behind them, two grooms carefully led down the women’s horses. Rufio waited at the foot of the plank in company with two of his brother officers from the Fourteenth Legion. They were introduced to Trelawna as Antonius, Primus Pilus, and Frederiko, Hastatus Prior.²¹ They were tall, handsome fellows with olive complexions, dark, curly hair and fresh, innocent faces. Both were off-duty for, despite having ridden from their encampment to meet their commanding officer, they affected casual attire — close-fitting boots, hose and loose blouses decorated with frills around their v-neck collars.

After greeting Trelawna courteously, they conferred with their superior, explaining the current dispositions of the Fourteenth, and where in the line it would be brought to bear.

On the far side of the estuary, Trelawna saw the fire-lit outline of a towering, crenellated rampart — no doubt the southern bulwark of the city of Nantes, for though it was already scorched and fissured in many places, innumerable war-machines battered it. The crash and rumble of the impacts could be heard even from this distance. Many of the roofs behind the rampart were burning and several of its towers had collapsed; rubble strewed its footings, alongside piles of huddled corpses.

“There’s to be no attempt to storm the city tonight,” Rufio said, rejoining her. “Apparently there’ve been several efforts so far, but all have been repulsed. The Bretons have put up quite a fight. One has to give them that. But they’re close to breaking. Our artillery has been degrading their defences for the last two weeks. Anyway, I’m to report to the Emperor straight away. It seems he wishes to congratulate me personally for the mission I’ve just accomplished.”

Trelawna didn’t comment, but was fascinated to know the extent to which starting a war could be considered an accomplishment. She supposed that as this had been New Rome’s ploy all along, Rufio and the other ambassadors had performed their duty admirably — though it still didn’t seem like much to be proud of.

“Would you accompany me, my love?” he asked, taking her hands in his. “Into the Imperial presence?”

“Of course,” she replied, feeling strangely unexcited about it. In fact, now that she was here, within earshot of yet another battle, she felt curiously despondent.

The voyage from Britain had not been uncomfortable. With calm seas and a fair wind, they had made good time. As she and Gerta had been allocated the ship’s master’s commodious quarters, they’d found themselves in proper bunks rather than hammocks, with a private dressing room and latrine, so there had been little to complain about. But for the most part, the other Roman dignitaries who’d shared the voyage had ignored her, the churchmen sniffing in her presence as if affronted by her ‘scarlet woman’ status, the patricians regarding her as a young man’s plaything, a winsome toy that was of no importance. Only two had exchanged pleasantries with her. One of these was Bishop Severin Malconi, Rufio’s uncle — a foxy-faced man, but a pleasant one nevertheless, who had expressed remorse that their two nations were at war. The other was Tribune Quintus Maximion — a tall, spare-limbed soldier, with short, iron-gray hair and a noble, if brutalised, face. He had been polite, if a little morose.

Now they had docked, only Maximion and one other military official, Ardeus Vigilano, Duke of Spoleto — who had only spoken to Trelawna curtly during the voyage and showed no interest in speaking to her at all now — came ashore. The ship would soon weigh anchor to catch the ebb-tide, and then proceed south. The rest of the ambassadors intended to remain on board until safe and secure in Roman waters.

“Once again, countess,” Maximion said, as a valet helped him mount his horse, “I trust you will find happiness in our new world. Don’t be too troubled. The affairs of men are tidal. There is a great storm raging at present. But in due course things will settle, and tranquillity will return.”

“That’s to be hoped, my lord,” she replied.

He saluted her in the Roman fashion, his right hand clasped across his left breast, before riding away into the darkness, his attendant at his heels.

Though she barely knew him, Trelawna couldn’t help but feel sorry to see him leave.

A short while later, Rufio, Antonius and Frederiko mounted up, and with Trelawna, Gerta and three packhorses loaded at their rear, embarked from the dock, proceeding along a shoreline path — only to encounter a grisly torch-lit spectacle around the next headland. Forty wooden frames had been erected along the water’s edge, and on each one was attached a naked, spread-eagled man. Several companies of Roman infantry, perhaps four hundred in total, stood at rigid attention while torturers beat the prisoners with rods and canes. Their sweat flew as they worked, dealing vicious blows to every part of the hanging, bloodied forms, none of which so much as twitched. There was no sound save the repeated impacts — thwack — thwack — thwack -

“Centurion!” Rufio called, sensing Trelawna’s silent horror and halting his steed. “What happens here?”

“Tribune Rufio?” The centurion seemed surprised to see him, though not particularly concerned. “Today’s attack failed abysmally. His Highness was most displeased. He ordered that the cohorts who failed to take the city wall should draw lots, and the losing cohort be decimated.”

“Decimated?” Rufio looked stunned; to Trelawna’s eyes, more stunned than she had yet seen from him. He quickly cleared his throat in an effort to regain his commander’s dignity. “Decimated, I see. But by flogging?”

“They are to be flogged to death, tribune. Caesar’s precise orders.”

Trelawna chanced a glance at the prisoners. In most cases their flesh dangled in torn, gory ribbons. Their heads hung low. None moved, because they were almost certainly dead, yet the beating went on as it clearly had done for several hours.

Rufio nodded grimly, feigning approval. But as they rode away, he drew alongside Trelawna and said quietly: “War is a cruel thing. It demands harsh necessities of us all.”

“I’d hoped to have left such necessities behind by now,” was all she said in response. She neglected to mention that of all the harshness she had witnessed on Britain’s northern border, she had never seen Lucan direct any at his own men.

From the scene of the execution, their route took them uphill through the encampments proper. While studying her histories as a girl, and particularly her Latin and Greek, Trelawna had studied the order of the Roman military machine. She had learned how their camps had been arrayed with exact symmetry — their tents all of a similar shape and size, laid out in rows equidistant to each other with roadways in between, almost like towns. But if that had been so in antiquity, it was not the case now. Now, the Roman tents, of many sizes, designs and qualities, were scattered across the hillside haphazardly, with only muddy paths snaking among them. Campfires burned wherever it had taken the legionaries’ fancy to light them. The soldiers clustered together in the flickering light, laughing, drinking, and dicing. They seemed vastly different from the Roman legionaries of old. The sentries wore armour of mail coats and leggings, but with heavy, overlapping plates on top, and open-face helmets with steel fins or plumes. They sported modern weapons, from maces and mattocks to pikes, halberds and swords. There were immense numbers of them. With each new rise there was another camp, the glow of whose fires spangled the night.

Emperor Lucius’s command tent was located on a central hillock, a huge golden pavilion, its exterior covered with the black images of eagles. It was so large and divided into so many chambers that timbers had been used to support it, and they now swayed in the breeze, the canopied walls flapping and creaking.

Rufio and Trelawna found the Emperor in the central chamber, an airy space laid with a rich carpet and lit brilliantly by rush-lights suspended from bronze chandeliers. Lucius stood at a central desk, surrounded by his prefects and generals, poring over maps. Trelawna wasn’t sure what she expected of a man who decimated his own soldiers — a roaring, bestial giant maybe, or a cold figure of cadaverous evil. She was utterly surprised to be confronted by a handsome, genial young fellow with a bright smile and red-gold beard and moustache. He was of average height and stocky build, and clad in a black iron breastplate elaborately cut with Latin characters, black leg-plate of greaves, cops and cuisses,²² and a cloak and under-pelisse of black and purple silk. His underlings wore similar heavy and flamboyant garb.

“Tribune Rufio,” the Emperor said in a delighted tone. “You join us at last.”

“Forgive me, Highness,” Rufio replied. “I came here with all speed.”

“No matter. Things have moved on apace since your departure from Camelot. But the situation is not out of hand. Far from it…” His expression changed. “And who is this?”

There were quiet murmurs as the Emperor’s officials focused their attention on Trelawna. Lucius introduced her as a Gallic countess whom he had liberated from the clutches of one of Arthur’s more evil knights, and whom, once New Rome’s victory was complete, he would take as his bride. The Emperor’s welcoming smile remained in place, but hardened a little as he pondered this. Trelawna couldn’t help wondering if Emperor Lucius felt he should be the one deciding who his nobles should marry.

“Let’s not run before our horse to market, tribune,” Lucius intoned, shaking himself back to the matter at hand. “Our situation is this. Thanks to the free-companies, we have the Breton Treasury in our grasp. As you’ve seen, Nantes is completely embattled and will shortly fall. I have also sent strong detachments to surround the chateaux Fougeres and Vitre. Their garrisons respond to our demands with jeers, but will be less obstinate once their king is in chains. When this particular part of the campaign is complete — and I anticipate that imminently — Brittany will have ceased to exist as an independent power. Thus, when King Arthur arrives, he will be landing in Roman-occupied France. There will be every justification to drive him back into the sea, and once that is done, to pursue him to his own shores, which, given that he will have lost most of his soldiery on this futile mission, we shall storm with ease.”

Trelawna listened with fascination, wondering if the Emperor genuinely believed what he was saying or if it was simply bravado. As far as she was aware, so far he had not won any kind of notable victory. Rennes had fallen to a horde of brigands, and Nantes, which faced the full might of New Rome’s army, was still holding out.

“Things have turned out better than I could have hoped,” Emperor Lucius said, his eyes bright. “Not two hundred miles from where we now stand, Julius Caesar signaled his power to the world with an extraordinary triumph over Vercingetorix at Alesia. Our triumph will be greater still.”

Again, Trelawna recalled her histories. Julius Caesar had been in command of a highly professional force, and the ancient Gauls had been disorganised savages. She appraised Lucius as he continued to enthuse about the inevitability of victory. He was clearly a charismatic leader. He seemed young to her, almost boyish, but he was likeable and energetic, and it could not be denied that so far at least, his conquests had run smoothly and to schedule. But she could not help wondering how many of his foes had been cowed by his Imperial name, and the sheer size of his armies, rather than his proficiency on the battlefield. King Arthur and his knights had trod a more difficult path. They had scrapped and schemed and fought and parleyed, in the mud and rain, in the frost and snow, enduring every conceivable hardship. They’d used brawn and brain in equal measure, through one war after another, never knowing defeat. In every way they had earned the power and reputation they enjoyed.

Even as Emperor Lucius drew Rufio to the table where the plans and maps were laid, and even though the other Roman officers, seasoned and well-trained, crowded around in quiet confidence, Trelawna felt her first pang of concern that she might have joined the losing side.