Altar of Blood: Empire IX Read online

  Julius thought for a moment.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then? They took Arabus’s body and left, leaving a man on the gate to make sure we didn’t try to escape. We heard nothing for two days, then on the third they came back. And that filthy bastard took Felicia to her bedroom, forced her to lie with him and left her sobbing on her bed with his seed in her belly. He came back three times in less than a week, before he tired of fucking an unresponsive victim and moved on to whoever it was that was next in line for his attentions.’

  ‘And that was all?’

  ‘If you can call something like that “all”, yes. When he failed to come back the fourth time we thought that it was over, that she might be able to reclaim her old life, and never tell Marcus of the indignities that had been forced on her. Until she missed her monthly bleed.’

  Her husband was silent, and Annia stared into the room’s darkness for a moment before continuing.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Julius. You’re wondering why she didn’t get rid of the baby while it was still unformed.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘An abortion? How could she? She was a doctor, Julius, sworn to care for her fellows and never to knowingly do harm. She could never have murdered an innocent child, and that’s all there was to it. She planned to have the baby and then have it adopted, find a family without children who longed for such a gift and pass the infant to them. We would never speak of it again, and Marcus would never be any the wiser.’

  ‘She’d have kept it from him?’

  Annia laughed softly at his incredulity.

  ‘I’d have kept it from you, if the emperor had chosen to put his child in my womb. Look at what’s resulted from him discovering the truth! What sane man takes to these streets at midnight dressed in no more than a tunic? If she’d lived it would have been better for him never to have known, never to have the scars of his family’s destruction reopened.’

  ‘If she’d lived?’

  ‘We thought her delivery would be simple enough, after the ease with which she had the first one, but the baby was too big, and refused to turn, and when she called for help it was too long coming. The doctor who attended her was no better than a butcher. He got the baby out by cutting her open, but she lost too much blood. She died in my arms, her eyes wide with the pain, and as she slipped away she made me promise to care for the child. I swore an oath, Julius, an oath to raise the baby as my own.’

  He wrapped his arms more tightly about her.

  ‘And what else were you to do?’

  Silence fell over them.

  ‘What happened? Is he wounded?’

  Dubnus shook his head at the question, shepherding Marcus into the walled garden with an arm around his back, physically supporting the Roman while the man who had been waiting for them closed the gate. The smell of herbs and fragrant blooms was strong in the warm air, a vivid counterpoint to the iron stink of spilled blood from his gore-streaked tunic.

  ‘He took on a dozen street robbers with nothing more than his bare hands.’

  The Briton raised a hand to forestall the veteran’s anxiety as Cotta stared aghast at the gore caked across the Roman’s tunic and body.

  ‘It’s all other men’s blood, but he’s pretty much burned himself out in the doing of it.’

  Cotta sized up the man whose long-dead father had employed him to educate his son in the fighting skills of the legions from the age of ten, assessing his exhausted posture and blank, empty eyes. He snapped out a command at one of the retired soldiers who formed the tight-knit company of men he had brought to the Tungrians’ close family on their arrival in Rome the year before.

  ‘Fetch me the hot water from the kitchen, and all of the towels! Here, let’s get him onto that bench.’

  The younger man sank gratefully onto the seat, his body trembling with reaction to the mayhem he had visited on the street robbers. Cotta stood over him in silence, staring down at the man he had tutored in the use of blade and point as a boy, when Cotta himself had only recently retired from legion service.

  ‘Get that tunic off.’

  Taking the garment he passed it to Dubnus with a meaningful glance.

  ‘Be better if this went onto the fire, I’d say. The less evidence of this night the better, if the Urban Watch come asking questions.’

  His man returned with a pail of water warmed over the kitchen fire and took the bloody garment away for incineration, and the former centurion knelt in front of his friend, wetting a towel and working at the drying blood that coated Marcus’s face and limbs.

  ‘How many did he kill?’

  ‘There were three corpses on the cobbles when we left, and another man trying to stop his guts from falling out without the wits to know that he was already dead.’

  Cotta shook his head, putting a finger under the Roman’s chin and lifting his head to stare into the half-closed eyes.

  ‘And why? You’ve no idea, do you? If one of those street scum had got lucky and stuck you with a blade, you could be dead now, and for no better reason than you’re filled with rage you can’t turn on anyone who actually matters.’

  He worked with water and towels until his friend’s body was completely clean, then wrapped him in a military cloak and handed him a beaker.

  ‘Wine and warm honey. Once you’ve got that down your neck you can eat this bread. And no arguments.’

  Acquiescing to the commanding note in his former trainer’s voice, Marcus drank deeply, nodding slowly in response to Cotta’s harangue.

  ‘I know … it was pointless … stupid … but …’

  ‘You couldn’t help yourself.’

  The Roman nodded, drinking deeply again, shivering with reaction to the night’s events.

  ‘No.’

  The veteran looked down at his former pupil for a moment.

  ‘And is that it? Or are you going to be stupid enough take it to the streets again tomorrow night?’ Marcus looked back at him with an expression of pure misery. ‘I’m serious, boy. Tonight was the easy one, with no one out there any the wiser to the fact that a lone aristo out after dark on his own could be anything other than easy meat. By tomorrow morning the word will be out there, and you’ll not only get yourself killed but lead these men into the same trap. Is that what you think you owe them, a meaningless death in a city that’s not even their home?’

  The younger man shook his head slowly, and Cotta dropped into a squat to look into his eyes, grimacing at the pain in his knees.

  ‘No. You owe them better, and you know it. Swear vengeance on the men who killed your wife by all means. I’ll sacrifice alongside you, and make common cause with you, but you’ll hold that vengeance for the right time, and not waste it in a meaningless slaughter of men who never had any part in Felicia’s death.’

  Marcus nodded wordlessly, leaning his head forward onto Cotta’s shoulder. The veteran took a gentle grip of the hair at the back of his former pupil’s head and pulled it away from him until he could stare into the younger man’s eyes.

  ‘And if that’s not enough to keep you from throwing your life away, I’ll remind you that there’s something altogether more precious than any thought of revenge. Your son.’

  The younger man stared back at him, tears welling in his eyes.

  ‘Exactly. Do you want Appius growing to manhood without ever having known his father, even if your friends manage to spirit him away to safety with every praetorian, urban watchman and gang member hunting for them?’

  ‘No. I owe him – them – better than that.’

  The veteran soldier nodded.

  ‘Yes you do. So when that bastard Cleander summons you and Rutilius Scaurus to the palace, and gloats over your agony like the animal he is, will you hold back your anger or will you buy his life at the cost of your own, and that of the Legatus?’

  ‘I won’t enjoy the rank of legion legatus for much longer, Centurion Cotta, any more than you’ll be a centurion.’

  Cotta leapt t
o his feet with as much dignity as his knees allowed, saluting crisply, but Gaius Rutilius Scaurus waved a dismissive hand.

  ‘No formalities, please Cotta, not at this time of night and under these circumstances. How is he?’

  Marcus stood, saluting his senior officer.

  ‘I’m tired, sir. It’s been a trying day.’

  Scaurus nodded, his face an expressionless mask.

  ‘Trying is one word I might have used. Devastating is another. Go to bed, Tribune, and sleep as long as you need to. And when you wake, come and see me to discuss the last of Centurion Cotta’s questions. I expect we’ll be called to the palace tomorrow, now that Cleander knows we’re back and has allowed a day for your wife’s death to sink in. He’ll be wanting to see your face, I expect, and see what havoc his machinations have wrought on you.’

  Marcus looked at him for a moment and then nodded, saluting again reflexively as he turned away and walked into the house.

  ‘You think he’ll be able to resist the temptation to smash the bastard’s windpipe?’

  Scaurus shrugged.

  ‘For one thing it would be a brave man who’d give him the chance. I fully expect the chamberlain to conduct his interview with us, when the invitation comes, from behind a wall of Praetorian armour.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  ‘In that eventuality, Centurion, I expect that both the chamberlain and I will have significant grounds for nervousness. Not that I intend to lose any sleep over it.’ He turned away, stopping and turning back as something occurred to him. ‘Oh, and I’ll be needing an escort in the morning, I’m planning to visit a professional man and I’ll need enough muscle to make sure we’re not disturbed.’

  ‘Will you not be taking that big German lump Arminius with you?’

  Scaurus shook his head solemnly.

  ‘He tells me that he has a more important task to perform. I’ll take Lugos along with me, if only to get a professional medical opinion as to the state of his leg, but the presence of a few of your rougher-edged veterans would be useful, I suspect.’

  ‘Arabus died instead of me, Arminius. He died like a slaughtered animal, choking on his own blood.’

  The big German sat opposite the boy Lupus in the house’s atrium, close enough to reach out and take the young man’s hand had he felt it appropriate, but something deep within him instinctively recognised that the time for comforting the child that they had left behind on sailing east for Parthia was gone, along with the child himself. The sword-armed soldiers Scaurus had set to guarding the house stared stolidly out into the morning’s sunshine, knowing better than to intrude in such a sensitive moment. Not only was the boy the orphaned grandchild of one of their own, considered a child of the cohort and welcome at any Tungrian campfire or barrack, but the German slave’s disregard for his apparent position among them was well known, as was his implacable temper when he was gainsaid.

  While Lupus struggled for self-control, Arminius looked for what was left of the boy he’d left behind the previous year, marvelling that so much could have changed in the still-familiar face in such a short amount of time. Harder lines in the jaw and cheeks spoke of the onset of manhood, something in which he would have quietly exulted under different circumstances. Swallowing his own sorrow for the teenager’s distress, he forced a note of harshness into his voice.

  ‘A lesson to be relearned, then.’

  ‘A lesson?’

  The German nodded into Lupus’s hot stare.

  ‘Arabus did what was right, offering his own life to protect yours, knowing how much more living you have left to do. Just like Antenoch.’

  The boy pursed his lips and nodded.

  ‘They both died because I was not strong enough to defend myself.’

  ‘They both died because they loved you enough to give their lives to keep yours intact. They both died because they were honourable men who knew what they had to do. And they both died because their time had come to die. Have I not told you this before?’

  Lupus nodded slowly.

  ‘But Arabus—’

  ‘Arabus knew what he had to do. There were wolves in the house, wolves who demanded a life, and he knew that his was the life they must take. He was man enough to offer it, and for that we should both hold his memory in high esteem for the rest of our days. And now you tell me this story with the wounded pride of a man who feels he should have done something to save his friend. Except, Lupus, you could have done nothing, because you are not yet a man.’

  The boy looked at him with eyes suddenly hard, and Arminius smiled slowly back at him to draw the hurt from his words.

  ‘Understand me, boy. You may be close to manhood but you cannot consider yourself as a man until I have finished helping you to become a man.’

  The boy protested, his voice raised indignantly.

  ‘Not a day has passed without my exercising with my sword and spear. My body is getting stronger—’

  Arminius shook his head, raising a finger to his lips.

  ‘Marcus is still asleep – do you want to wake him and have him discover that my master has gone to take some share of revenge for his wife’s death without him? A man can make such a point without once raising his voice. What I speak of is more than your muscles, or how tall you’ve grown. You will possess great strength, given another few years, and perhaps even be tall enough to look me in the eyes, but true manhood comes from more than the body the gods have seen fit to gift you. True manhood is in here, Lupus …’

  He tapped his forehead.

  ‘True manhood is measured by whether the man is worthy of the term. I will train your body and make you strong, give you skills with spear and sword that will make you a great warrior.’ He leaned forward to stare into his pupil’s eyes. ‘Becoming a man, however, will be a different matter.’

  The half-dozen people waiting for a consultation with the doctor were suitably respectful when they saw the purple stripe that adorned the latest arrival’s tunic, while the size of the party accompanying him spoke volumes as to his significance in the city’s complicated social structure. While the man himself was clean-shaven and bore no obvious scars, the fact that he was a serving officer was obvious, not least from the size and demeanour of the men accompanying him.

  The first member of his party to come through the door was a stocky figure dressed in a military tunic with cropped hair, scarred arms and an evident disdain for the waiting-room’s occupants, but if his appearance gave the clients a momentary frisson of apprehension, the man following him was altogether more disquieting. Built to an entirely different scale, he was forced to duck through the door, and as he limped across the room to join the soldier, the waiting patients watched his progress with wide eyes, mesmerised by his slab-like muscles and long, plaited hair. Their master entered next, to general and evident relief at both his civilised appearance and the likelihood of him preventing any unpleasantness on the part of the hulking barbarian, but the three men who completed the party quickly reinforced the initial impression. Hard-bitten soldiers to judge from their short hair and beards, they clearly regarded the citizens present with a mixture of distrust and open curiosity. A tense silence fell upon the room as the new arrivals looked about them, with the sole exception of the equestrian who was evidently the head of this close-knit familia, apparently too deep in the scroll he was reading to pay much attention to the goings-on around him.

  After a moment, the doctor’s assistant appeared through the door that led to his consulting room, noting the new arrivals with a raised eyebrow. Upon his call for the next patient, concerted efforts were made by the waiting room’s other occupants to encourage the aristocrat to take their turns with the physician, although whether this generosity was born of respect for his rank or fear of his companions was not entirely clear. In any case the efforts were to no avail, as he simply smiled and gestured for the next patient to accompany the doctor’s assistant, happily reading his book while the room slowly emptied as each of its occupa
nts saw the doctor and left until, an hour or so later, only his party was left. Pulling a face at the unexpected lack of any further custom, the doctor’s assistant ushered him through the doorway, on the sensible assumption that he was likely to be the only one of the party with the wherewithal to pay for such expensive services, moving hastily aside as both the stocky soldier and the giant followed. The doctor looked up from his chair, gesturing to one on the other side of his desk.

  ‘Good day to you, sir. Please do take a seat.’

  The aristocrat sat down, inclining his head in thanks.

  ‘And good day to you, Doctor.’

  The medicus smiled approvingly at the reply, couched as it was in the same language that he had used for his greeting. It might have been hundreds of years since the first Greek doctors had abandoned their home country and claimed Rome for their own, but a gentleman still spoke to his physician in the language of the greatest civilisation the world had yet seen. Clearly this was an individual of some substance, despite the rather villainous appearance of the men who had accompanied him into the surgery. He drew breath to enquire as to what might be the malady on which his esteemed client sought counsel, only to find the man before him speaking somewhat out of turn.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive me, by the way, I’ve taken the liberty of posting a pair of my men on the street outside to deter any new clients from attending upon you for the time being. I will of course compensate you for the lost custom entailed, but I thought the precaution essential given that I’m here not with regard to matters of my health, but instead to clear up a rather sensitive matter.’

  He fell silent and looked at the doctor with what might, under other circumstances, have been taken for a severe expression but which, the doctor was swift to decide, was understandable enough if the man was about to present him with the painful evidence of the pitfalls of a debauched lifestyle.

  ‘Is it …?’

  He raised both eyebrows and inclined his head to indicate the man’s crotch. To his surprise the patient laughed tersely and shook his head.

  ‘Indeed no, although I can see how my previous comments might lead you to assume that I’ve dallied with the wrong sort of lady. No, Doctor, my visit is to do with something entirely different. A question of childbirth, as it happens. But before we speak of that matter, I’d appreciate your opinion as to the state of some wounds my companion here incurred in the course of our duties in the east, a few months ago.’