Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Not long after the prisoner exchange, Lucius gathered his reins and urged Maximus into a walk. “How far away is the army?
“When I left them, they were camped just northeast of Mai Dun, waiting for reconnaissance information about this northern land—before besieging the next hillfort west of Mai Dun along the south coast. Vespasian’s orders have not changed: subdue the south and take control of the coastal ports; but he wants to know whether there are large towns or hillforts in this area. ”
“And what will you tell him?”
Adler stared at Lucius’s face. “I haven’t decided yet. That depends on a number of factors.”
“Such as?”
“What you wish me to tell the Legate. Whether you free me immediately upon our arrival at camp. What your fond farewell of the Durotriges woman means.”
“Adler, I’m sorry. You should have been freed by my disappearance. My likely death should have been accepted. I assume our father was informed I was missing and presumed captured or killed?”
Adler’s mouth flattened. “I believe he was advised. I am your brother. I shouldn’t be your slave. I should be more to you than that.”
Lucius shook his head. “You’re right. You have been the companion of my childhood, my best friend, and my dearest relative. I should have freed you years ago.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Lucius massaged his neck as he contemplated why in all these years he hadn’t freed his half-brother from bondage to him.
The truth underlying his resistance to giving his brother his freedom became clear.
“Because I feared I would lose you again, as I did when our father sold you when we were children. I couldn’t bear that pain again.
The only way to ensure you stayed with me was to keep you enslaved. I am sorry, brother, I was selfish.”
Adler jerked his horse to a halt and fixed a death stare on Lucius. “That is ridiculous.”
“Really? You guarantee that you would have remained with me all these years if I hadn’t owned you?”
“You are my brother. My only kin. Where would I have gone?”
“You could have forged your own future.”
He snorted. “Not much of one to be had in the Roman Empire without money and citizenship.”
“I thought I was doing the best thing for both of us. Providing you with a home, and me with the only family I care about.”
“If you free me now, the only path upward I have open to me is twenty-five years of army service. If I survive, I will be an old man when I am finally eligible to be a citizen, can own land, marry and start a new life.”
By the gods. Had he done that to his beloved brother? Through his selfish needs, he had wasted years of Adler’s young life. “I don’t have a staff with me by which to bestow manumissio to you. You will be freed upon our return to the camp.”
“And where will I go after that?”
“I hope you will stay with me. Or leave, as you see fit. Join the Ala. Whatever you choose.”
“I will let you know my decision after you have freed me.”
Lucius nodded. “And your reconnaissance advice to Vespasian?”
Adler gave a bitter laugh. “The same.”
Adler was holding his cards close to his chest. And Lucius deserved no better. Saving Sorcha and her Durotriges clan hinged on Adler’s advice, and that depended on Lucius’s actions on their return to camp.
Lucius outlined the report he would make to the commanding officer on their return. Adler listened in silence. Whether he would corroborate it or not remained to be revealed. Lucius could only hope.
By late afternoon of the second day of their trip.
Lucius and Adler had reached the marching camp established by the Second Legion northeast of Mai Dun.
An attack on Sorcha’s peninsular fort could be mere days away, using the trackway leading to the head of the valley of streams that ran straight to Dun Creg.
The guards at the camp’s Porta Praetoria recognized them, and Lucius and Adler trotted their horses through the gateway and along the main roadway to the commanding officer’s tent.
They halted outside. Grimy though he was and dressed in native trousers, Lucius proceeded to report to the Praetorium, the headquarters, immediately.
Outside the tent, Lucius spoke with one of the clerks seated there, then reported to the commanding officer’s aide, who ushered him inside. Adler waited with their horses for his summons.
Titus Flavius Vespasianus, Legate of the Legio II Augusta, was a man of no beauty.
At age thirty-five, his dark wavy hair was already thinning, his beak of a nose dominated his face, and his chin jutted forward, indicating dogged strength.
On seeing Lucius stride into his presence and salute, the Legate’s mouth quirked up at its corners.
“The dead are indeed risen,” he quipped.
He was a man of the equestrian class and not a native of Rome.
Vespasian, as he was called, had been appointed legate of this legion by Emperor Claudius three years ago.
He had shown himself to be a strict military leader, known for his blunt speech, and he was proving to be a very successful campaigner.
Lucius respected him.
“Report,” the Legate commanded.
Lucius scanned the spacious tent. Seated with Vespasian, and a number of other officers, were the legion’s senior Tribune and its Camp Prefect. Surprise and curiosity were stamped on their faces.
Lucius stiffened to attention, his hands behind his back.
“Four months ago, I and two engineers accompanying me were ambushed just north of Mai Dun by a band of Britons. The engineers were killed. I was spared as a potential hostage. A few days ago, an attack on their hillfort by their enemies was successful. During the melee, I escaped on horseback and headed south. Two days ago, I stumbled upon my slave, Adler, who has been serving you and the acting Praefectus Alae in my absence, I believe.”
Lucius clenched his hands together. “He reported that two of our men had been killed by a party of natives. Adler and I managed to escape the area on our horses. He led me here and waits outside, ready to report his reconnaissance.”
A worried frown wrinkled Vespasian’s forehead. “Where were you held captive?”
“About two days ride northwest from here. In a hillfort overlooking a swamp that I understand covers a vast area from its east to the north along the coast.”
“It has been reported upon by my scouts.”
Lucius dipped his chin.
“So do we need to quell the Durotriges in those hills? Are they a danger?”
“I believe the Dumnone are taking full advantage of their traditional enemies’ distraction fighting us and are using the opportunity to wipe out any Durotriges settlements on their frontier.”
Vespasian snorted. “Good. They are saving us time and effort. And were you treated well by your captors?”
“I was not harmed. Just put to work building their defenses.” It was best to stick as close to the truth as possible when providing disinformation, Lucius had been advised by his cunning father, who stepped adroitly through the quagmire of the machinations of the Roman Empire.
“Bring the slave Adler here,” the Legate commanded his aide.
Adler entered the tent. His eyes darted from one officer to the next as he took in the crowded space.
“Report, slave! Why did you live, while my auxiliary cavalrymen were killed?”
“Three of us were separated from the remainder of the turma in deep woodland southwest of the marshlands.” Adler related the Eques Alaras’ deaths, saying that he had been put in charge of the horses while the cavalrymen attempted to catch two natives, intending to interrogate them.
“And how did you find Praefectus Lucius Gallus?”
Lucius’s gut tightened into a knot. Would Adler back him up?
Adler looked around the group again and cleared his throat. He had their full attention.
Bile threatened to rise up from Lucius’s stomach.
Adler relaxed his stance and recited the doctored history Lucius had related, as though he had rehearsed it for days.
Tension eased from Lucius’s shoulders. In his head he chanted, It’s not over yet. Stay on guard. You’re not out of the woods.
The Legate watched Adler closely. When Adler came to the end of his report, Vespasian nodded abruptly and waved him from his presence. As Adler stepped from the tent, Lucius released his pent-up breath as quietly as possible.
Vespasian addressed his companions. “It seems to me that I should accept the overtures of the Dumnone king. It will be to our advantage to establish the Dumnone as a client kingdom and let them control any uprisings of the Durotriges on their border.”
The officers flanking him nodded agreement.
“Bring the Dumnone ambassador to me,” he instructed his aide, then turned back to Lucius. “Do you speak their language?”
“I have a reasonable understanding of it now,” Lucius answered.
“Good, you may translate for us.” Vespasian pointed to a stool at the rear of the tent. “Take a seat.”
A tall, red-haired native entered. His richly embroidered tunic and cloak and the gold torc around his neck announced his elevated status.
The man was a druid for sure. He swept a bow to the gathered men.
“Greetings,” he said in their language. In halting Latin, he announced that he represented the King of the Dumnone, who wished to form an alliance with Rome and create a peace between them.
“Lucius, translate this for me. Tell him that Rome is willing to negotiate a peace with the Dumnone king. In return, they will pay taxes to the Empire in the form of tin from their mines, grain, and anything else Rome wants. And they must keep the Durotriges on their frontier peaceful. Make sure he knows that I mean quelled at all times.”
Vespasian was giving the Dumnone the right to attack the Durotriges at will to keep them subjugated.
It would mean certain death to the Dun Creg people, vulnerable as they were in that northern outpost. Lucius translated Vespasian’s message for the Dumnone druid, leaving out the last sentence that gave the Dumnone ut occidere license—permission to kill the Durotriges.
Within minutes an agreement had been struck. All that was required now was its formalization in writing. The Dumnone ambassador departed to gain his king’s consent to the terms.
“We will continue to campaign along the southern coast for now,” Vespasian said before he dismissed his officers. Lucius rose to leave. “Lucius, a word, please.”
Lucius turned back from the entrance to the tent.
Vespasian beckoned him closer.
This was most unusual. A shiver of disquiet tracked across his back. “Legate, how may I assist you?”
Vespasian’s mouth tightened into a grim smile. His forehead remained furrowed. “Do you consider me a fool, Lucius Gallus Antonius?”
“No, Legate!” He most certainly did not. Vespasian was as a smart as the lead wolf of a foraging pack.
The Legate came at him fast, like an attacking viper.
Lucius expected to be struck and readied himself.
Instead, Vespasian stuck his face up close, eye-to-eye, and his anger blazed on his face.
If Lucius had been a shorter man, he may have been intimidated.
“Then you can assist me by translating everything I say in future, should I need your services again.” Vespasian’s breath smelled of soured wine.
Lucius braced himself to halt his recoil. “I did my best, Legate.”
A nerve beside Vespasian’s eye ticked. “Do better next time. And to motivate you in that endeavor, be aware that I am reporting your insubordination to General Aulus Plautius, and my doubts that you were indeed held as a hostage. You look far too well-cared-for to resemble any hostage of mine.”
“I was not starved, Legate, only put to manual labor.”
“Did I ask you to speak? No! You are dismissed. Return to your unit. Clean yourself up. Cut your hair, shave, and wash, so you don’t sully the Empire’s uniform.”
His commander drew a sharp breath. “You are relieved of your Praefectus rank for the foreseeable future. And on your honor as a Roman officer, you will confine yourself to barracks until I decide what to do with you. Dismissed!”
Lucius’s stomach hollowed. Bastard! Lucius saluted and departed the room.
Vespasian’s response was far worse than he had expected.
For the first time, hatred for the army and all it stood for ignited and burned inside him.
His simmering doubts about his role and future in the army of Rome exploded to the surface.
Gone was his pride in their victories and the glory that came from them.
Now all he could see was that it was the bloodthirsty machine of a rapacious empire. One that sought to supplant the cultures of the many people within its borders in the name of peace and order, but really in their quest for wealth and power for Roman citizens, in particular, the Emperor.
For everyone else, there were just crumbs. For many there was only slavery, as hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children were consigned to a life without power, even over their bodies. That had been the fate of Adler’s mother.
With Vespasian’s words, Lucius’s trajectory into the powerful ranks of the Roman Empire had plunged earthward. For him there would be no promotion, no future governorship, no elevation to Senatorial rank. By discrediting him, Vespasian would eradicate another future competitor for power.
Alea iacta est. The die is cast. Lucius waited for disappointment to hit him with its shockwave.
It didn’t come.
He actually no longer cared.
He was finished with the Roman world.
Lucius shook his head and took in his surroundings. Clerks sat at their desks on either side of him, sneaking covert glances at him, probably wondering what in the name of Jupiter he was doing standing there frozen.
He stomped from the Praetorium.
Adler waited for him outside. As soon as he saw Lucius, he pulled a document from inside his cloak. “Thank you.”
Lucius looked him in the eye and sighed. “You have my seal still?”
“Yes.” Adler fished it from beneath his tunic, where it hung on a leather thong around his neck.
“Then apply it to that manumission document immediately. You have waited far too long for your freedom.” The weight of his unfulfilled promise fell from Lucius’s shoulders.
Adler complied. “I was happy to spend the years with you. You are my only family. But I want to be free as well.”
How would Lucius go on without his best friend? “So, what will you do now?”
“I go wherever you go, my brother.”
Relief flowed through Lucius like a draft of mulled wine on a cold night. Thank the gods. He clapped his hand on Adler’s shoulder. “I have a suggestion… and a plan.”
Adler smirked. “Of course you do.”