Last of the Ninth

By Stephen Lorne Bennett

A Roman legion annihilated, an imperial agent vanished. Malorix, a deadly agent of the Imperial Secret Service, follows their trail eastward to Parthia and beyond. Haunted by supernatural forces and his own past, he will join forces with Lucian, a deviously subtle spy-handler, as they struggle to unravel a conspiracy to unseat an emperor. To survive Malorix will have to learn what it is to be a leader and confront the terrible spectre that haunts the last survivors of Rome's most infamous legion. Last of the Ninth tells a story of one man's struggle for redemption and belief.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Lorne Bennett
• Release date: Aug 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452330396

Stephen Lorne Bennett

Stephen Bennett is a writer, scholar and former diplomat. He resides in Ottawa, Canada.

Book preview

Chapter I

Bithynia and Pontus, 161 AD

Within the vault, absolute calm. Hours of ritual and rite lie in the past. Purified. Sanctified. Severianus knows his moment has arrived.

Damned silence, he says, words barely audible. A whisper dispelled, drawn into the stolid walls of a chamber hewn from primordial stone, ancient long before men called this land Bithynia. Dead stone that feeds off of what it can never be—the living.

Through laboured breath Severianus concentrates, conscious of the effort. Seconds morph into minutes that gather like an enemy host, his tenuous hold on reality slipping beneath the weight of their temporal assault. Kneeling. In the confines of this place, time has become for him a matter of fretful urgency. Senses waver, overcome by the possession of a hope that something familiar might pierce the obscurity—the scrape of a door, the chirp of a bird, the cry of a bread vendor on a distant street. The infinitesimal sounds of everyday that pass unnoticed in the bustle of life, absent here, entombed, in this crypt.

Stand and run. The thought lingers, to be dismissed with patrician contempt. Too late for that. Soon he will have answers, his course set. Kneel then. Keep your head. The Stoic way.

Though a supplicant and a pilgrim, his purple-bordered tunic marks him as one of the elect: a senator of Rome, a governor, a man of substance. Power. Armies he has led, exchanged wit with emperors, judged men. Fear then, has no place here. Yet beads of sweat collect upon his scalp, mocking him, and by their assembly offer mute testimony to the dread that possesses his soul. They form tiny rivulets and run down his face and neck to the ebony floor.

When sound comes at last it is faint, and to his tortured mind far more disturbing for the quiet that came before. There again. A soft swish, the catch of rough flesh on fabric. Lifting his head, he is startled to see a priest seated where moments before, through this interminable silence, there has been only a gilded throne. Concealed within the black folds of the priest’s cloak is some writhing, living thing.

The sole source of illumination in the chamber is a pair of stubby oil lamps. By their tepid glow the priest’s skin is deathly pale. Golden hair falls over slender shoulders, and hangs with humidity and sweat, a stand of winnowed wheat after an autumn downpour. His tunic is plain, beard closely-trimmed. Eyes luminescent, they pierce the half-light. Falling from one shoulder, a cloak tumbles across his lap in a profusion of layers. His aspect is one of profound intelligence. Not a man, but a meeting of the sacred and the profane—the incarnation of a god come to earth.

The rich cloth of the cloak alternately tightens and relaxes, undulations stronger with every movement. Whatever lies hidden there is growing, or perhaps awakening, from a long slumber. At length the cloak falls open, and the coils of a serpent are visible. Tawny scales marked by patches lined in glistening black, its motion steady, almost patient. The serpent too is waiting. Severianus bows more deeply, fingers spread wide and pressed firmly upon the cool marble as to summon courage from Terra Mater, the Earth Mother.

And so … the priest says softly. His voice is a whisper, yet perfectly clear within the confines of the crypt. Are you ready to receive the knowledge you seek?

Yes, my lord.

The priest sits quietly, chin in hand, as one making a study of his ardent devotee. Without warning he thrusts his exposed arm heavenward, crying Let the god be revealed! The snake ceases its languid writhing with a violent shudder. A great wind fills the chamber, hot and sulphurous. Severianus fights the urge to vomit, holding a sweaty fist to his mouth and clenching his throat against the taste of bile.

Calm.

When at last he finds the courage to look again at the priest, he sees the cloak is rising. Hesitantly, it moves by small stages, until at last the serpent’s head is visible, cradled in the crook of the priest’s naked arm. The head is large, almost too large for the body, its colour so dark that at times it disappears, only to reappear, drifting in and out of view. The lamp light is reflected, amplified in the expressionless pinpoints of the serpent’s eyes. Fixed in the darkness, they seem to search for a victim. A forked tongue beats the air, taking in the strong scent of incense drifting from burners affixed to the chamber walls.

The snake opens its mouth and a sound issues from deep within—a moaning like the November wind that carries the cries of the souls of the dead from the paupers’ pit on the Esquiline Hill. Whispers, groans, imitation of words. At first Severianus can discern no meaning, but presently they grow in pitch and intensity, a pattern in the sound. Now is his moment. Now he will learn heaven’s design.

The people of Armenia and of Parthia… hisses the snake. Your spear will lay low. To Rome and the Tiber’s bright waters you shall go. A whistle of air resonates, like the taking in of a great breath. Flowing outward, it carries with it sacred words of prophecy. If by the standard nine alone you rely … a shining garland of victory on your brow shall lie.

The body of the snake twists violently then lies still. Severianus clenches his fists in triumph. His limbs quiver as he raises his head to look again upon the face of the god. To his dismay, the serpent has disappeared. Only the priest remains.

You have heard the will of the god, the priest intones severely.

Yes, my lord.

And you understand what you must do?

Yes, my lord.

The priest rises and looks benignly round the enclosure. Bending low, he touches Severianus on the shoulder and says, Go then. And take what the god has willed to you.

Chapter II

Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad – Plutarch of Chaeronea

The road is lined on either side by forested bluffs. On a cliff high above, a dark shape is concealed in the light and shadow of mingling leaves. An angry gust rips through the forest canopy and for an instant the figure coalesces, only to dissolve again into the foliage. The next strong draught reveals a hooded man crouched at the edge of the precipice, gazing downward in rapt concentration. Poised on his haunches, he peers over a barely raised thumb, holding his arm as one might an instrument, making small adjustments as he traverses it slowly from right to left.

Calculations complete, Decimus Malorix pulls back his hood and feels the warmth of the morning sun on his face. Before his eyes it burns away the layers of mist that only moments before concealed rugged hills. Daylight confirms their choice of location. Below a signal from Vadomar. All is in readiness. Eight, he says quietly. Eight seconds from the time their quarry emerges from the trees until they move around the cliff face beyond his line of sight. Ample.

The Greek and his escort will end their journey here on this isolated stretch of road. For Claudius Maximus has sent word that it is time to make an end, and that is why Malorix is here. Malorix is the end.

He carefully withdraws a pair of arrows from his quiver and lightly presses one of them head down into a crack in the sun-bleached limestone. The other he notches to his bowstring and draws it back, testing the tension. No Roman bow this. A body carved from richly cured heartwood, with curved tips fashioned of laminated layers of sheep’s horn and rawhide. Decorated with images of sacred animals, it is more beautiful to Malorix than all of the statuary that surrounded him growing up in the imperial court. The deadly recurve, pride of the Sarmatian horsemen who rule the steppe lands. The weapon of his ancestors, who centuries earlier made the long migration westward from their windswept homeland to the banks of the Danube.

Breathe, he says aloud, feeling the quickening in his blood, the rush before the kill. Held in its grip, more than one archer has shot wide of an easy mark. The curse of Artemis, as some call it. To the old ones it is the fever. Scant months ago Malorix was able to say it had never touched him. That was before the dreams came, and everything changed.

The breeze cools the sweat on his brow, a telltale sign that gives voice to what his mind still refuses to accept. He inhales deeply through his nose, and releases the air slowly through parted lips. In his mind he recites the measured cadence of formulas learned from his father, who learned them from his father, and his father’s father. "Prepare your mind … the arrow flies by your will alone." Words handed down from father to son, from ancestor to ancestor, since the time of legends. To Malorix, the Emperor’s assassin.

Breathe.

He twitches involuntarily at the sound of a sharp exhalation. The laboured breathing of an approaching horse. The road is steep, the animal struggling with the grade. Taking the flight of his arrow between thumb and forefinger, he gently slides the bowstring to the notch, as he kneels and listens.

A hoof sends a stone hurtling into a tree with a resounding crack that echoes deep into the forest. On the track below leaves shimmer like the water of a pool disturbed by a pebble. A mounted warrior enters into sight, the cruel curve of a Thracian falx cradled loosely in his arms. The Greek follows, oblivious to his peril, legs dangling listlessly at his horse’s side. The third rider sits a saddle with the distinctive high seat of the Roxolani, the dominant Sarmatian tribe of the east. A circular shield slung over his back, he holds his long sword across the base of his horse’s neck and his eyes alert to danger.

Malorix raises the bow with unhurried deliberation, stretching one arm to its full extension and drawing the bowstring to his ear with the other. The fleche of the arrow brushes his cheek as he takes a draught of air and gently exhales. Fingers carry the strain, and then lose their purchase, like slow seduction. His hand reaches for the second arrow. Cold. Outside himself. As though from some nearby vantage he observes the automaticity of fingers that notch the shaft, swing the bow upward and draw the bowstring taut a second time.

The Roxolani warrior takes the first shaft full in the chest and flies backward from his saddle, arms stretched to either side as though imploring his gods for explanation. As the others half-turn in the saddle to ascertain what has happened, their mounts rear in response to the unexpected motion behind them. Recognition. An ambush. Forelegs strike rude flagstones, as horses and men uncoil in unison in desperate hope of safety. Malorix feels the bowstring slipping from his fingers a second time, counting.

Five … six …

* * * * *

The horses maintain a steady rhythm as Malorix leads them through open forest where deciduous trees have long since withered for lack of light, leaving the field to triumphant conifers. Arboreal stillness reigns, save the dull thud of hooves on rich compost soil twenty thousand years deep.

Beneath a sombre sky his eyes flash blue against dark features which could be north Italian but are pure Sarmatian. Clean-shaven like a Roman, in the manner of his people his hair falls in a single plait between his shoulders. He wears a dun coloured tunic, breeches, and a leather corselet protected by a malleable arrangement of overlapping bronze and lamellar disks. Handles protrude from scabbards sown into the leatherwork down either side. His daggers. A hooded cloak flaps in time with the easy movement of his horse. A sheepskin riding coat, split at the waist, reaches below the knee.

Malorix forces the pace, relief growing in proportion to the distance between himself and his kill. Behind him the Greek, with Axel leading his horse. The former rides with taciturn equanimity, tied at the wrists, a marked contrast to his relaxed and smiling handler. Axel too is pleased to be done with this mission. Soon there will be food and drink and other pleasures denied to him through the long months in the forest. With a shout he catches Malorix’ attention and they pull to a halt. Axel helps his prisoner execute an awkward dismount. Has to piss! he announces, like a carnival tout.

We’ll rest, Malorix announces as he alights. Selecting a moss-encrusted boulder, he sits heavily and unwraps a wooden carving of a stag pulled from his saddle bag. The forest has two things in abundance—wood, and the time to carve it. Carving helps pass idle hours. Vadomar dismounts heavily nearby and stands, stretching his trunk-like legs. A vast, tangled mass of leather, beads, and blond hair, his face a weathered standing stone. So, we train for hippodrome, Sarmatian? Malorix allows the corners of his lips to turn upward in time with a barely perceptible inclination of his head. Was that humour? Difficult to know, Germans not being, in his experience, funny.

Their location places them near the convergence of three Roman provinces—Pannonia, Moesia, and Dacia—where what the Romans call the Wild East begins. Beyond lies the great fortress city of Singidunum, and beyond that the forests of the Danube mark the frontier for another three hundred and fifty rugged miles before reaching the great black sea.

Axel and Vadomar tracked this Greek agent for months as he moved westward from Dacia. Malorix joined them a scant two weeks ago. At first, he enjoyed the novelty of company. Now he looks forward to their return to Dacia. Vadomar a talker. Axel, young and wild. The sooner they are gone, the sooner life will return to normal. On his own. No chatter.

As he shaves the wood Malorix senses the German’s regard. My tribal elders spoke of it many times. What happens when you stay in forest long time. Too long maybe?

Malorix keeps his eyes on his task. I like the forest. There are few people. Few Germans, he adds to himself.

Ya maybe, but nobody is coming. Escort is dead. Is only this Greek now. So what hurry?

Malorix shaves a few more strips and examines the grain. Why can’t this lumbering son of Wotan keep his own counsel? Besides, what can Malorix say to the man about feelings, about visions and thoughts that plague his sleep?

Are we not at rest? he asks irritably.

Should have done hours ago.

Malorix looks for a hint of challenge in the dolmen-like features. No. Just a German who says what’s on his mind, whenever it’s on his mind. I’m tired.

Tired of what?

Tired of you for one thing. Tired of this mission. Tired of death, he says finally.

You? The German raises an eyebrow. Some say you are death.

An acquaintance.

Ya? Vadomar’s voice assumes a raw edge. There are those who say it is your great pleasure to kill Germans.

Malorix comes alert and says quietly, These ones looked to be Dacian, or Roxolani.

Sure. But is true?

Slowly Malorix slides the fingers of one hand closer to his daggers, as he fixes Vadomar with his eyes. When I was a child, Germans burned a Sarmatian village and killed every living soul. My mother was in that village.

For a brief interval Vadomar falls silent, then says, What I know, death this way does not go. Sure he was back there on road, but now he’s done there, so he go to work new place. Lot of killing to do. Death. That fella he keep busy, busy. Bastard.

Yes. Malorix feels his hand relax. Not so long ago he had seen the world like Vadomar, taking life as it comes. Life is death.

The German shrugs, "I fear no man, no animal. Flesh or spirit, you hunt or are hunted—maybe both. Those that were men are no longer, Sarmatian. Only shades … Vadomar grins. Think you can outrun them?"

No.

The German grunts his scepticism. How long for you? Here in north?

Three years.

Rome?

No.

On this frontier, that long time. Even you visit town, forest is not so far. You see it. You smell it. I think so. To me, this is long time. You hear forest spirits.

This homily spurs a humourless laugh. Malorix conjures the faces of the legion of wanderers he has encountered in his time, on the frontier. Not the migrants, or the merchants and traders who travel together in caravans for their security and their sanity. The faces are of the ones who journey alone, like him. The hunters, the holy men, the dispossessed, the men and women rejected, shunned, and cast off by towns and tribes for crimes unknown, or for no crime at all. For most of them, if they weren’t mad when they set out, the forest soon made them so.

Ya, anyway, you are tired, little, maybe, Vadomar continues. We get this Greek packed away and go south from Rome to sea. I do this when I get to see old Claudius in Rome. Go where there are women!

Malorix pats his carving with the blade of his knife. Claudius would have us here just now. The tribes are restive.

Ya, Vadomar agrees, fidgety like horse before storm.

Just so. Thanks in part to our friend here. He flicks his blade in the Greek's direction. Claudius wants eyes and ears on the barbar … on the frontier.

… Barbarians?

Yes.

Now you talk like Roman bastard.

I am a Roman bastard.

You Roman? Where is your tunic with purple stripe then, Knight?

Rome.

With your rich man father?

My father was a slave.

Vadomar spits. Slave? What kind of knight has slave for father? What kind of slave can afford to be knight? Malorix says nothing. Just don’t you ever think you or I are Romans in their eyes. You, he snorts, a knight. With your barbarian braid.

But the words are lost to Malorix. Reliving the moment yet again, he sees the Roxolani warrior’s arms flung outward in final appeal to an indifferent universe. So many lives ended, like that one. Men of whom he knew nothing.

His orders come from the Imperial Secret Service in Rome, known far and wide as the Frumentarii. Over many years the Frumentarii tried various means to control those who stir up the tribes north of the Danube. The troublemakers are for the most part clan leaders or their ambitious relations greedy for land or plunder south of the great river boundary that bars passage to the wealth of Rome’s empire. Frontier garrisons, walls, and lookout posts can scarcely cover all the gaps in such a vast frontier. The Frumentarii use every stratagem in their arsenal—alliances, bribery, negotiation, hostage taking, punitive raids, tribe pitted against tribe, clan against clan, chieftain against chieftain. But when they found Malorix, they found something different. Something cheaper. Cleaner.

A coded message from the Prefect of the Frumentarii is all it takes. Problem solved. The Geti and the Sarmatians believe him a demon. Among the Germans and their allies, he is Indisi—the one who decides the fates of warriors. He is the secret of Rome’s silent frontier.

You can tell Romans by their gods, Vadomar prates on. No life. They are apart from you and me, Sarmatian. Romans speak to gods like stones. Have you seen their priests? Them that pray, they are asleep … or dead, maybe. His eyes grow bright with this apparently comic image. Out here we have living gods. Spirits and demons. You know there are, you have seen them.

Those warriors we killed back there …

They not give up this Greek bastard while breath in their lungs. So you take it. So what?

A tawdry death. Without mourners or honours. Family. Repose unknown, unmarked and forever. What cares of this world they held close at that final moment …

Died with them.

Or not. He gazes into the forest, eyes captive to a distant point where perspective vanishes into shadow and obscurity amid the greenery.

You speak of wanderers. Souls that cannot leave.

The gods know how many.

Many?

I have sent to such a death.

* * * * *

By late afternoon they come upon the shell of a building adjacent to a fast-flowing stream. Vestigial timbers and charred beams cling tenaciously to walls of what was in former times a mill, its roofless interior lying defenseless now, exposed to the elements. Traces of outbuildings and granaries peer from behind tufted grass, razed to blackened foundations by the predations of a merciless foe, identity lost to time. Foliage encroaches upon the ruin from every quarter, while lush colonies of moss carpet stonework flanked by twisted roots, well advanced in eager reclamation of their birthright. All is evidence of the brute destruction of a bygone era. As Malorix dismounts he feels the brooding weight of this undergrowth, silent witness to execrable violence long past.

Salve! A man steps from the shadows of an improvised lean-to constructed within the walls. His hair is a patchwork of grey wisps over a wide forehead, eyes lively beneath enormous brows that frame an unkempt speckled beard. Tattered Celtic breeches and a deerskin tunic smeared with dark stains of blood complete the image, a woodsman. He clasps arms with each rider as they dismount, lastly running his hand over Axel’s head and roughing his hair.

How are you, young tiger? he shouts. Though it is difficult for Malorix to find a reason to dislike Gerontius, if there is one it is that he is invariably loud.

Axel jerks a thumb toward their captive still glumly astride his horse. Go away, old man, or we will give you the same as this one.

This is our precious prize, is it? Gerontius says, eyes appraising. A Greek by the look, or something worse. He snorts. Vadomar, what’s worse than a Greek?

A bigmouth Celt!

Gerontius helps Axel pull the Greek from his saddle and tether him to a tree with a stout rope. The prisoner is bruised and scraped in places, but passably recovered from fleeing the Sarmatian’s ambush only to be knocked from his horse by the butt end of Vadomar’s spear. It seems well enough. What does it speak?

It's a Greek. What you think it speaks, you old relic? Vadomar quips. But maybe speaks Latin too, so better you let one of us handle it!

Hah! Listen-to-who-talk, Gerontius bellows, aping Vadomar’s Germanic, country Latin. He grins at their captive. You can look daggers at me all you want, boy! After a month of watching the moss grow in this excuse for a place, you’d be smiling too. Yes you would, by all the gods!

A figure emerges from a nearby path in the trees. Who’s this? Malorix asks, hand on dagger.

Dispatch rider. Gerontius lowers his voice for a change and shoots Malorix a furtive glance. Rode out of the mist about three days ago. Dull as a dolmen, but he’s company.

Malorix intercepts the newcomer and leads him up the path out of earshot of the camp. Greetings, Rapax, the young man says, addressing Malorix by his Frumentarii code name. He is bareheaded, but sports a mail shirt and a spatha, the long sword that marks him as a cavalryman. He reaches for a dagger sheathed in his belt, twists the pommel and removes the handle. From the hollowed interior he extracts a small roll of papyrus held with a seal. Malorix eyes the roll suspiciously, and looks up to locate the sun, just discernible in the drab greyness of the overcast sky. A few hours of this demi-sunlight remain, just enough perhaps to decipher it.

When did you leave Rome?

Four weeks to find you. Not an easy thing. The last few days were particularly challenging, sitting here with that boring old Celt.

You made fair time. If I can decipher this, you will return tomorrow.

I will sacrifice to Mithras and Mercury happily, if it be tomorrow. This place is like death.

No, Malorix says abruptly, feeling an unaccountable urge to share the foulness of his mood with this stranger. Death and I just transacted a little business. He’s occupied elsewhere at present. The messenger offers no rejoinder but shifts from one foot to another the way soldiers do when they stand the long hours of sentry duty. In the Roman army the name Rapax is feared from one end of this frontier to the other. Malorix can smell the fear on this one. It’s a scent he knows well, and one for which he has developed a certain taste. He turns his attention back to the scroll, indicating their interview is at an end. The messenger salutes and retreats hastily to rejoin the others gathered at the mill.

Gerontius has constructed a passable shelter there with a timber roof half-open allowing for the escape of smoke from a fire pit. From the edge of the trees Malorix watches as the old Celt shares his wineskins with the new arrivals. Axel tends the fire. Vadomar’s laughter booms to the edges of the clearing. There it dies abruptly, absorbed by a stand of ancient timber resentful of the intrusions by the living. Watching as they drink in turns, Malorix starts toward the camaraderie of the shelter then halts abruptly. He stands poised as though held fast by unseen hands, his eyes drawn inexorably to the wooded gloom. There is a partridge in my saddlebag, he says quietly. To you … unknown gods of this grove, I will sacrifice today.

A sense of release accompanies this vow. And so, to business. Retrieving the saddlebag from his horse, he takes up a position some distance from the mill and sits, his back against a hoary oak, the pitted leather bag across his lap. From the bag he produces a wooden box and removes its contents—a square of parchment, a set of bronze pens, and an inkpot. Taking the papyrus roll he carefully unlaces a tiny seal box tied to the end and examines the wax seal inside it. Seeing it undisturbed, he breaks it, unrolls the papyrus, and flexes it flat.

Shift cipher. In use since before the time of Julius Caesar. All messages transmitted within the Frumentarii carry a wax seal to ensure against tampering. Shift code is the second level protection, substituting true letters of words with others in the alphabet according to simple established patterns.

Malorix is well versed with the code, and in a few minutes is able to read his first line of text. Developments in Rome require you undertake new mission. Proceed to Smyrna alone, with all speed. Avoid contacts en route. Highest priority.

Malorix places his pen in the pot splashing ink on his breeches. Smyrna? he says aloud. Thinking there must be some mistake, he checks his work for error. He finds none. The central Danube region is his area of operations. But Smyrna, that is half a world away!

In the normal course of things Malorix would derive quiet pleasure from the pleasant task of decryption. He would relish the anticipation, a return to happier days of childhood and schooling, when he looked forward to daily discovery. But this is not usual, his satisfaction blasted away in a single line of text.

At Smyrna pose as a wealthy slave merchant. The Greek will have sufficient gold to carry off such theatricals. Take it for expenses but leave me a sample. Go to the Tavern of Elias daily until contacted. Adiutrix will have further instructions. Victrix.

Victrix. Code name of Claudius Maximus, Prefect of the Frumentarii. Roman agents have many code names, but only those of the first rank are named for the legions, a feature meant to add confusion should an enemy intercept and decipher a message. Malorix shares his code name with the XXIst Legion based in Raetia Province. All he knows of Adiutrix is that he is an important agent handler somewhere in Asia.

He squints toward a gap in the tree line where stars are beginning to blink into view in the eastern sky. Smyrna! Surely the work of the Parcae may be found in this. The Fates, three goddesses as fickle as a Celtic handshake. Is this what lies behind his weeks and months of troubled dreams, and the dark figure that haunts them? Premonition? Death.

Long introspection fails to answer, and his thoughts migrate by slow stages toward more practical concerns. The hard ride ahead. The condition of his mount. Supplies. As incredulity morphs into resolve, he is conscious of the rapid coursing of blood through his veins. And something else. Exhilaration. By Targitai! Over five hundred … no, six hundred miles, just to Byzantium.

He deciphers swiftly now, though the final fragments of text prove disappointing. Watchword: They are a nation of actors. Reply. Laugh and they’ll out laugh you. Your eyes only.

Malorix tries to work it through in his mind. Or better yet, find a reason not to go. But the orders are clear. With all speed. Closing the writing box with a snap he returns it roughly to his saddlebag. He has never been east of Byzantium in his life and has barely spoken a word of Greek in at least four years. Are there no other agents? Why in the name of all the gods would Claudius send him to Smyrna?

Still in the grip of unanswered questions, he returns to the company assembled by the fire. Tossing the pieces of papyrus into the flames he watches them blacken and twist, victims on a pyre.

Good news? Gerontius prompts.

Change of plans, he says sourly. You carry on to the rendezvous outside of Rome as planned. Vadomar will take charge.

And you?

Your eyes only.

I … he prevaricates, am taking a different road. Beneath their unspoken scrutiny he makes to tend the fire. At length he snatches a pull at the passing wineskin and tears off a piece of one of a brace of hares Gerontius has prepared to celebrate their return. An involuntarily groan rises from within him as the rich mixture of flesh and wine assaults his senses.

With the assurance that the change of plans does not affect them, and with food in their hands, conversation ebbs as the men tuck in. Malorix watches them thoughtfully, then at last fills a wooden cup with a shrug and a toast. To the Parcae, he says, hoisting the cup.

To the Parcae! they agree, more or less in unison.

The Parcae rule the lives of men! Vadomar bawls, shaking a rabbit leg at Malorix. You live, you die.

Been saving this. Gerontius produces a small cask and breaks the seal. Cypriot mind. None of your saddlebag plonk tonight.

The Sarmatian’s strange news fails to dampen the company’s enjoyment. Following the meal, feeling full and warm with wine, Malorix reaches for the Greek’s belongings piled next to the fire. Inside the first satchel he finds a mirror, writing kit, some dried food, and a bronze dagger. The dagger handle is striking, being in the shape of the head and upper body of a serpent. The head of the snake is rendered in profile, with a pointed snout and a long mane of gilded hair.

In the second satchel, eight small coin pouches. Loosening the cord of one he withdraws a handful of golden aureii—the most valuable coin in the Empire. He holds an aureus to the firelight. One side bears the likeness of the Emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Opposite the image of the goddess Juno Moneta is inscribed with her name. Malorix withdraws coins from the bag and examines them one by one. All bear the inscription SD, indicating manufacture at the imperial mint in Serdica. If they have seen circulation, it has not been for long.

Vadomar kneels beside him and pours out the contents of a second bag. By Donar! We are rich, Sarmatian.

I am ordered to take most of this.

Where?

You know better. Take this, he hands him one pouch, and the Greek to Claudius.

So foolish. To think you can ride alone with such gold as this bulging from your barbarian pockets.

Did you speak to the Greek?

Little talk is all. Threaten with Questionarii. Usual stuff. Don’t even blink. Maybe he understand some Latin. Hard to tell. The Questionarii were the army’s professional torturers, feared throughout the Empire. He’s cool one, Vadomar continues, not a word since we took him. Bastard.

You whacked him pretty hard when you unhorsed him back there on the road.

No. This one different. There is little light right here. He points to one eye. You don’t turn your back Sarmatian, no way.

Malorix picks up a wineskin and moves to where the Greek sits tethered to the tree, hands and feet tightly bound. Malorix kneels before him and takes an appraising pull at the wine. He is skinny