Patrick (42 page)

Oh, I fought with sublime abandon. The next foemen to encounter me received a surprise when, out from behind the cover of my shield, jutted a long-bladed barbarian spear. I sliced one in the groin, and the other I pierced through the gut; another risked his life on a foolhardy throw of his ax, which bounced off my shield boss. I laid open his leg below the knee and, as he turned to run, thrust the blade deep into his back.

So it was I soon found myself looking at a space of open ground. Across from where I stood, nestled in a protecting bulwark formed by the massive trunks of two fallen trees, battled the last remnant of Legio Valeria Victrix, staunch be
neath the much-battered golden boar. I put my head down and ran to join them.

Halfway across the gap a rider swooped into my path. His sword glimmered through the air, slicing toward my head. I tried to dodge. My feet slipped in the churned-up muck and flew out from under me.

The horse wheeled and reared. I squirmed in the mud, struggling to rise. My shield and spear, heavy and unwieldy in the mire, suddenly became awkward impediments to be cast off. Releasing my hold on the shield, I rolled away just as the horse's hooves came down.

I scrambled to pick up my spear but slipped again. The rider loosed a cry of triumph and raised the long blade above his head to dispense the killing stroke. Looking up into his eyes, a word came to my lips.
“Dachnaruhna!”
I shouted, using the briamon as Datho had taught me.

Now, I do not know if it worked or if, in my alarm, I even said it properly. But the word struck my attacker with the force of a command. A bewildered expression came into his eyes. The blade faltered slightly in his hand. I lunged for his mount's bridle. My fingers snagged the leather strap, and I pulled with all my might.

The horse's head came down. Its forelegs slipped on the soggy ground, and it stumbled, pitching the rider headlong over its neck. He landed in the mud on top of his shield. I heard the bone in his arm crunch as he fell. He groaned and tried to rise, the weight of the shield hanging from his broken arm.

I took a quick step and kicked him in the side of the head. The barbarian rolled onto his back. Springing forward, I snatched the sword from his hand, spun back to his mount, seized the reins, and slid into the saddle as the horse climbed back onto its legs.

Once in the saddle I rode straight for the legion huddled in its fortress of fallen timber. I cut down three attackers from behind, then a fourth who shouted something to me as he turned to meet the blade that caught him at the base of the
neck. I realized then that mounted—filthy with mud as I was and without a Roman shield to distinguish me—the Gothi took me for another barbarian.

I forced my way through the crush, killing at will. Most of those I struck down did not even look back to see who it was that attacked them, and the few who did could not understand why one of their own should turn against them. With careless ease I carved through the mass of warriors, opening a path behind me.

Upon reaching the shield wall, I shouted, “This way! Follow me!”

Wheeling the horse, I started back into the crush that was rapidly filling in behind me. I urged the horse forward, slashing this way and that with my sword, not caring where I struck. Weapons, helmets, shield rims, the shafts of spears—all met my blade, but I hacked away, striking again and again.

Seeing an opening before them, the legion was not slow to follow. With a mighty shout they surged into the gap, forcing it wider, pressing in behind me, and rushing on.

I reached the outer edge of the encircling ranks and saw the forest trail leading to the river. I urged my mount forward, galloped across the gap, and paused at the trailhead to mark the place while the legion followed as swiftly as they could on foot.

General Septimus and Vicarius Columella, surrounded by a bodyguard of soldiers, were among the last to come. “This way to the river, General,” I said as they hurried past.

“The vicarius is wounded,” the commander told me. “Take him with you.”

Columella made to protest. “I can still fight.”

“Then fight for us in Rome,” replied Septimus. Turning to me, he said, “Cross the river and ride for Banna. Have them send messengers to Agrippina and Novaesium to muster the legions there. We will push on to the river and cross if we can. They are to meet us there.”

He motioned to the legionaries with him, and they lifted
the protesting vicarius and heaved him onto the back of my horse. “Go with all speed, and do not stop until you have reached Banna safely.” He looked at me hard. “Do you understand, soldier?”

“I understand, General,” I said; clenching my fist, I struck my chest in salute.

“Hie!” shouted General Septimus, slapping the flanks of my horse.

The animal bounded away. “We will send help!” called the vicarius, tightening his grip on my waist. I gave my mount his head and let him run.

T
HERE WERE NOW
a great many legionaries fleeing down the trail, with clots of pursuing Gothi and Huns. Rather than plowing through the turmoil, I reined off the track and headed into the forest. I pushed a fair pace through the wood, listening to the sounds of the battle receding behind us. When I reckoned we had outrun any pursuit, I slowed somewhat and worked back to the trail, where I halted.

“What—why are you stopping?” demanded the vicarius. “Are we safe now?”

“Silence!” I hissed.

The wood was quiet. The tumult reached us as a muffled din, far off and indistinct. Satisfied that there were no barbarians lurking anywhere nearby, I urged the horse onto the trail and dismounted. Regarding the vicarius, I said, “We are safe now, but we must keep moving. The horse is growing tired, so I will walk.”

“Then I will walk, too.”

I glanced over my charge. He was covered in mud and blood, as I was, but seemed no worse for his ordeal. “What about your wound?”

“It is nothing—a lump on the head. Nothing.” He slid off the back of the horse and joined me on the trail. He took but two steps, however, when his eyes rolled up into his head, and he went down on one knee. I caught him and bore him up.

“Perhaps we should rest a little,” I suggested. The color had drained from his face, and he appeared about to swoon.

Closing his eyes, he shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice tight in his throat, “the men are waiting. We will go on.”

“As you say. But I think you should ride.”

“I think you are right.”

I helped him back onto the horse. “The river is this way,” I said, sliding the sword beneath the saddle. Then, handing the vicarius the reins, I started off at a quick pace.

We continued for a time in silence, myself on foot, the vicarius riding slowly beside me. After a while he seemed to improve. Looking down from the saddle, he said, “What is your name, Centurion?”

“I am not a centurion,” I told him.

“No?”

I shook my head.

“Well,” he said, “you are now. Your name?”

“I am called Succat,” I replied simply.

“Stand still,” he ordered. I stopped and turned to look up at him.

He raised his hand over me. “I, Aulus Columella, by appointment of Emperor Honorius, Consul and Vicarius of Gaul and Germania, do herewith promote you, Succat, to the rank of centurion in the Imperial Army of Rome.”

I thanked him and resumed walking. He rode up beside me, asked what my former rank had been and how long I had been in the army.

“I had no rank.”

“But you can ride,” he objected. “You have a horse.”

“I took the mount from a Goth I unhorsed in battle. Before that I was on foot like everyone else. I had no rank.”

“None at all?”

“I was in one of the numera,” I told him. “I have been in Germania only a few weeks.”

“You have done well to save me, Succat. I can do good things for you.” He smiled expansively. “I am not one to forget a favor—as you shall see.”

He made it sound as if saving his life were little more eventful than rescuing a pup fallen in a well. To me, certainly, it was nothing more than that. Even so, I thanked him again and continued walking, content to let the matter rest. But, feeling better, and heady with his experience of battle, the vicarius wanted to talk. “Your family will be very proud to hear of your promotion. No doubt they will hold a banquet in your honor.”

“No doubt they would,” I agreed, “if any of them were still alive.”

“There is no one? No one at all?”

I shook my head.

“A pity.” After a moment he asked, “Who were your parents, and what happened to them?”

“My father was a nobleman in Britain. We had an estate near the coast. There was a raid, and my parents were killed.”

“A nobleman, eh?”

“My father was, yes.”

“So be it! Henceforth you shall be recognized as a knight of the empire.” He nodded to himself, as if, having nailed down another loose tile, he was trying to decide what to hammer next. “Could you not have taken over the estate?”

“I flatter myself to think so,” I granted. “Unfortunately, I was taken captive during the raid and sold as a slave in Hibernia. I lived there for seven years. By the time I returned, the estate had been declared abandoned and sold by the governor to someone else.”

Vicarius Columella professed to find this tale fascinating, so I gave him a much-reduced version of the events which had led me to enroll as a mercenary in the Gaulish auxiliary. I finished, saying, “I had heard that a friend of mine, a Briton from near my home, was stationed at Augusta Treverorum. I decided to try to find him.”

“And did you find him?”

“No.” I shrugged. “He must have been sent elsewhere.”

“Most probably he is not far away. I will find him for you.”

The vicarius, despite his superior ways, was not a disagreeable companion. The sun burned through the low-hanging clouds, and the day cleared. We reached the river, where I paused to see if any barbarians were patrolling the shores. I saw no one, so I proceeded to water the horse. Columella dismounted and knelt to drink his fill. I drank, too, and when I finished, I started down the bank, leading the horse into the water. The vicarius hesitated. I looked back to see him still standing at the water's edge.

“I cannot swim,” he said.

“Then mount up,” I said, bringing the horse to him. “Keep your saddle and let Boreas here carry you.”

“Boreas?” he wondered. “Why do you call him that?”

“No reason.”

I waded into the water once more. The river was deep and the current strong, but not, in this part of the channel, too fast. I was able to keep my head up while holding to the reins, and soon my feet touched the river bottom on the far side some little distance from where we had entered.

“Now,” I said, “to find the way to Banna.”

“Do you know the place?”

“I know that it lies to the west.”

“That way,” Columella pointed out the direction.

“The road follows the river,” I told him, “so if we continue straight ahead, we should strike it a little farther to the south.”

“Lead on,” said the vicarius. “I submit to your wise counsel.”

Thus we proceeded—Columella mounted and myself afoot. Keeping the river to my back, I soon gained the road and turned toward the west. We had not gone far when we reached a mile marker. “What does it say?” asked the vicarius as I hurried to read the inscription.

“Eight miles,” I replied.

“Come.” He put down a hand to help me up. “Walking is too slow. If we ride, we can still reach the fortress before the sun goes down.”

“We can reach it even more quickly,” I suggested, “if only one rides. You ride on ahead and alert the garrison. I will follow on foot. If you hurry, the troops can be across the river before dark.”

The vicarius agreed. “I will send a horse for you.” With a slap of the reins, he was gone.

I resumed my journey. The sun was moving past midday, and the air grew warmer. As my clothes slowly dried, an immense exhaustion settled over me. My body began to ache, and my muscles stiffened. I walked on, but my steps soon dragged. Bone weary, I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes for a while. When I came to the third milestone, I stopped and sat down on the base of the plinth. The moment I closed my eyes, however, my mind filled with the frenzied, chaotic images of battle: the carnage…the killing…the terrible, furious excitement.

Strange to say, I felt nothing for my part in it—neither fear, nor relief, nor remorse, nor exultation, nor anything else. Had I been hollowed out and stuffed with dry straw, the events of the last two days would no doubt have roused more passion in me.

Although they had tried to kill me, I did not hate the enemy. I hated the futility more—the needless waste. I thought of poor Quintus, lying there with an arrow through his throat: dead, having given his life for no particular purpose—the acquisition of a few barbarian baubles, nothing more; and he did not even get any good plunder before his life was taken from him. I thought of the others in our numerus, of Varro and Pallio, and wondered if I would ever see them again. It did not seem likely. The legion, I reckoned, would most likely have been overwhelmed soon after we left them. It would be a miracle if any survived, and, as I had long ago discovered, such things as miracles did not exist.

When I stirred myself from this dismal reverie, I saw that the sun was now dropping close to the horizon. I would not reach the garrison until well after dark. As tired as I was, the thought of spending the night alone in the ditch beside the
road held no appeal. I rose onto stiff legs and stumped off once more.

I passed another milestone and had a fifth in sight when I heard the sound of horses on the road ahead. Only then did I realize I had sent my only weapon away with Columella. Darting off the road, I hid myself in a clump of bracken beneath two tall pine trees.

The horses came nearer. Soon I could hear the voices of the men as they rode along; though I could not make out the words, I caught the familiar cadence of their speech. I could not imagine any Goth or Hun speaking Latin, so as they passed, I peered out from my hiding place to see who they might be.

I saw five armed soldiers on horseback, their weapons red in the lowering light. One of them held the reins of a riderless horse. They halted at the mile marker, and the foremost among them dismounted to examine the tracks in the road. “He came this way,” he called to the others, then looked into the surrounding wood. “He was here.”

The others began looking around, too, and the mounted leader of the group abruptly shouted: “Succat!”

Startled to hear my name, it took a moment before I understood they were looking for me.

“Succat, if you can hear me, come out!”

At this I rose from the bracken and stepped out upon the road behind them. “I am Succat. Who calls?”

All five turned to look at me. The leader wheeled his horse and trotted to where I stood. “Succat?”

“Yes.”

“Do you not recognize an old friend when you see one?”

I confess I did not. He was large and dark, his face leaner, harder, his body thicker than when I had last seen him. He sat his horse with the superiority of a general, looking down at me with vague curiosity. Then he smiled, and the expression was his own.

“Rufus?”

“Licinius Severus Rufus and none other,” he said, the
smile spreading into a wide, handsome grin. Sliding down from his horse, he stepped before me, gazed into my eyes, and then gathered me in a rough embrace. “By the gods' own balls, Succat, I never thought to see you again,” he said, clapping me on the back. Then, holding me away again, he said, “But look at you now, my friend, you look like you've been wallowing with pigs all day.”

“I have been fighting barbarians,” I replied, beaming with complete and absolute delight. Tears came to my eyes as relief and happiness flooded through me in rippling waves.

“You're meant to spear them,” suggested one of the soldiers, “not wrestle them into submission.”

“We were ambushed,” I explained, pushing the tears away with the back of my hand. “The legion was slaughtered.”

“I know,” Rufus replied, growing serious again. “Vicarius Columella raised the alarm. Messengers have gone out, and the ala is hastening to rescue any survivors. The vicarius requested volunteers to come find you. When I heard your name, I had to come and see if it was my old friend.”

He hugged me again, then put his arm around my shoulder and walked me to my horse. Rufus motioned to the soldier who had dismounted, and they both helped me into the saddle. Tired as I was, I accepted this small service gratefully. Once I was mounted, Rufus passed me his waterskin. “It is water only, but drink your fill. There is good beer waiting at the garrison—and a hot meal,” he said, climbing back onto his mount. “If you are ready to ride, we'll soon be raising our cups to one another over the board.”

“Like old times,” I echoed, grinning so wide my cheeks ached.

I was conducted to the Banna garrison—slightly larger than the one at Augusta Treverorum but surrounded with the same attendant clutter of mean houses, inns, bathhouses, fields, and cattle pens. We dismounted in a near-deserted yard inside the walls; Rufus sent one of his subordinates to report the successful completion of his mission. Meanwhile I was conducted to the legion's bathhouse, where after a
scrub and soak in the hot room and an issue of clean clothes, Rufus took me off to the taverna where the soldiers of Legio XXII Pia Fidelis spent a considerable amount of time. It was a small inn, with low ceilings and cramped rooms, but the tables were big and friendly, as was the master, a wily veteran of twenty-eight years' service to the empire.

“Cassius!” cried Rufus, leading me into a room already filled with soldiers. “Cassius, this is my friend, Succat. I have not seen him for fifty years! So bring the cups and keep the jars overflowing. Tonight we mean to drink our fill.”

“I hear you, Centurion!” replied the owner, hurrying away to fetch the jars. “To hear is to obey.”

A group of soldiers stood beside the hearth watching a haunch of meat roast on a spit. At Rufus' declaration one of them turned and regarded me casually. “Are
you
Succat?”

“I am.”

He smiled suddenly. “Let me be the first to pour your beer.”

He thrust his own cup into my hands and hastily replenished it from a jar, calling to his companions as he poured. “Here, now! This is Succat—survivor of the massacre. He has just—”

Before he could finish, the others began hailing me and slapping me on the back, sloshing beer over the rim of the cup. “Drink!” they called. “Drink!” Others gathered around and began clamoring, “What news of the battle? Tell us! What happened?”