《Standard Bearer (Sword of Rome #1)》


 Page 1

    The boats drew closer to the white cliffs. Sunlight glinted off a myriad of swords, breastplates and helmets. Spray from the turquoise channel blew up into his face, but sweat more than seawater moistened Lucius Oppius'' palms as he gripped the Tenth Legion''s eagle. His eyes were as blue and cold as the Mediterranean. His friend Roscius had commented, half jokingly and half in earnest, how Oppius would have been considered handsome  -  if he ever bothered to smile. A grim expression again carved itself into the soldier''s face as he gazed up at the jeering barbarians, their bodies smeared with woad, upon the cliff tops. Even the most cowardly of tribes in Gaul would fancy its chances from such advantageous ground, Oppius mused. The sound of their jeers was occasionally accompanied by the high pitched swish of an arrow, as the odd archer tried his luck. Invariably the missile would zip harmlessly into the sea, or at best a thud could be heard as it struck a Roman scutum or the hull of a ship.


    Oppius turned his gaze towards the lead trireme where his General, Caesar, stood at the prow. Did the standard bearer notice the hint of a wry smile upon his commander''s face? Caesar had encountered such defiance before. Many had rolled the dice against Caesar and the Tenth, but in the end the Venus throw always came up and Rome was victorious. His red cloak blew in the wind. Caesar was still handsome, whether he smiled or not. His hairline had been retreating of late more than the armies of Gaul but his body was still taut with muscle, his face clean-shaven. His eyes took in everything, yet often remained unreadable. Although brave, Caesar was not foolhardy, Oppius thought. Should he choose to attack now then the legions  -  the Seventh and Tenth  -  would be slain from a barrage of missiles before the boats could even reach the beach.


    "If their blood lust is anything like their lust for alcohol then we could be in trouble," the standard bearer heard a legionary mutter behind him, only partly as a joke.


    "The one often fuels the other." The knowing reply came from a man that the legion nicknamed Teucer, for his skill with a bow. The wiry, pale-faced soldier was a Briton, who had left his homeland and travelled to Gaul. Most Britons were recruited by Rome''s enemies on the continent but Teucer had chosen to fight for the Republic. Caesar himself had witnessed his abilities with a bow and bent the rules to promote him to the Tenth. Oppius liked the Briton  -  and not just because he had saved his life in battle on more than one occasion. He was amiable and intelligent, picking up Latin as quickly as he picked up the legionary''s black sense of humour. Oppius briefly wondered how his comrade was now feeling, as he journeyed towards invading his homeland. What was it like, to view your countryman as your enemy? Oppius hoped that he would never have to find out.


    The standard bearer was far from the only Roman to focus his attention upon the figure of Caesar as the trireme''s captain approached his commander. Many of the newer recruits thought, hoped, that Caesar would point to the captain to sail back to Gaul. Yet Oppius had faith in his General that he would give the order for the fleet to sail onwards, along the coast, and discover another landing site. Indeed Oppius had more faith in Caesar than he did the Gods  -  and sure enough he observed his commander nod his head in the direction of Britain rather than Gaul. Onwards.


    Not even the Gods could stop Caesar.

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    The previous night.


    Through the flames and smoke of the campfire, through the blackest of evenings, through a sea of bobbing heads, Oppius could still see the precious, gleaming head of the legion''s silver eagle. The eagle nested in the sacellum, a sacred shrine dedicated to the standard. Even in the safety of the Roman encampment the standard bearer tried to keep an eye on the semi-divine totem. Oppius was one of the youngest ever legionaries to be awarded the honour of serving as an aquilifer  -  a standard bearer. Lucius sometimes missed being in the thick of the fighting however, owing his duty to protecting the standard rather than fighting alongside his friends and comrades. Although the eagle had tasted blood a couple of times recently when an enemy had been a glory-hunter, or just plain mad. Gore had smeared the eagle''s beak and talons as the aquilifer had fought off the barbarians. Oppius was honour bound to sacrifice his life rather than the standard.


    His attention was taken away from the shrine when Teucer handed him a plate, with a charred piece of venison on it. Oppius drained half his cup of wine and poured the remainder over his plate, to soften and moisten the meat. At the same time however he watched Roscius down his cup in one and quickly refill it.


    "You should pace yourself Roscius. We have a long day ahead tomorrow. You don''t want to spend the voyage forever emptying your guts over the side of the boat," Teucer remarked, full-knowing how his warning would probably fall on deaf ears. As their General often exclaimed that "Caesar must be Caesar", so too Roscius was Roscius, a drinking and killing machine.


    "If I am ill tomorrow or go weak at the knees, it''ll be due to sick sickness rather than any hangover," the hulking legionary replied, wine dribbling down his stubbled chin. "If man was meant for the sea, the Gods would have given us gills."


    "I remember the last time when you went weak at the knees, when you fell for that whore in Massilia," the Briton remarked, smiling and taking a swig of watered down acetum from his own cup.


    "Aye, I nearly lost my heart to that girl. I also nearly lost a more important part of my body, due to the itch she gave me," Roscius replied, laughing at his own joke.


    "So what is Britain like Teucer?" Marcus Fabius asked, when the laughter had died down. Marcus Fabius was a teenager, a new recruit. He was the son of a merchant who had once been Oppius'' centurion, when the standard bearer was a raw recruit himself. The elder Fabius had asked Lucius to keep an eye on Marcus. The youth''s ambition was to be a poet, but the father had entered the son into military service. "I want to put some steel into his soul. I just don''t want some Gaul putting some steel between his ribs." Combat had yet to scar his body or war ravage his features and innocence. "The enemy won''t know whether to fuck you or fight you lad," Roscius had commented upon first being introduced to the sensitive looking adolescent.


    "There are parts of my homeland that are green and lush but that''s partly because it rains so much. The people can be friendly, especially when they''ve had a drink or two. Yet my people can also be violent, especially when they''ve drunk too much. The tribes are forever squabbling between themselves, although our imminent invasion might just unite the usually fractious tribal leaders. Caesar must aim to divide and conquer. He also needs to avoid a pitched battle on open ground, as the enemy archers and charioteers might pick us off in a piecemeal fashion," Teucer posited, picking at his venison in an equally piecemeal fashion.


    "And what of your people? What are they like?" Fabius asked, his eyes filled with curiosity, although his heart was somewhat filled with fear in regards to the strange barbarian race.


    "My people can be proud, rapacious, ignorant, brave and noble  -  in short, they are much like everyone else Marcus."


    "But will you consider them just like everyone else when you pull back your bowstring tomorrow and they''re in your line of sight?" Roscius gruffly asked.


    "No, but I''ll still know which side I''m on, don''t worry about that Roscius. A Briton will still receive an arrow in his front, as opposed to a Roman receiving one in his back. In fighting for Rome though, I believe I will also be fighting for my homeland and its people still. I have little doubt that Rome will subdue Britain eventually  -  and unfortunately that subjugation may well be bloody, as our experiences in Gaul have proved. But it also may be a price worth paying. Rome will tax Britain and mine it for its tin and take a share of the harvest, but in return we will receive laws, security, increased commerce and advances in the arts and sciences. Tin and corn are a fair trade for a more civilised society."


    His voice was clear and confident, but Oppius couldn''t help but notice how the Briton appeared troubled, or pained, as he spoke.

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    It was Caesar''s turn to look troubled and pained as he stood upon the prow of his trireme again and assessed the situation. The bulk of the barbarian force, led by its cavalry, had tracked his fleet along the coast and was marshaling itself upon and around the beach where he was intending to land his own army. Caesar had given the orders for his ships containing his archers and artillery to anchor at both ends of the beach, in order to flank the enemy and provide covering fire. Word was passed around that the legions should ready themselves for the attack. Yet whereas upon land the so0ldiers would have commenced to snarl, jeer and thump their shields Caesar witnessed a sea of hesitant faces. He was worried too, about the depth of the water and the strength of his enemy. He could lose as many men to drowning as he could to British spears. Yet the time to attack was now. Caesar would not be Caesar if he suffered defeat or a retreat, the proconsul judged.


    Oppius winced slightly at the brightness of the searing blue sky. Perhaps the Gods had dispelled the clouds in order to get a better view of the imminent, bloody spectacle he fancied. The legionaries looked at each other, with blank rather than eager expressions. Even Fabius'' glowing olive skin had lost a little of its colour. The boats had still to brush against the seabed beneath them. Enemy archers had assembled towards the rear of the beach. The shields of the soldiers in the transport vessels nearest to them began to look like pin cushions. The sea breeze whistled around their ears. Although the sun blazed down upon them the wailing sound still sent chills down spines. Even Roscius appeared apprehensive.


    Caesar had crossed the channel. The die was cast. He could not go back. His pride would not allow him to. Caesar could not suffer the ignominy of failure. Even in victory Cato and other backward-looking members of the Senate had criticised him. Yet he could not move forward without his legions. If he was on land he could give a rousing speech and direct his officers and troops with purpose. Battles often rage like fires but every fire needs a spark, Caesar thought. He drew his sword, hoping that the action would somehow serve as an inspiration or signal.


    The light reflected off the commander''s sword, into the standard bearer''s eyes. Lucius Oppius was the son of a soldier. His father had intended to work out his service in the army and gain a plot of land that he could call his own. The veteran legionary ultimately craved peace. Yet the son craved promotion over peace. Perhaps it was the voice of his dead father, Gnaeus Oppius, whispering in his ear now. Lucius had heard stories from veterans how his father would lead from the front when he had served under Marius, Caesar''s uncle. Or were the Gods now whispering in his ears? As when a barbarian would look to capture a Roman eagle, were madness and vain-glory taking possession of his soul?


    "Once we''re on that beach, we''ll soon bring peace to this barbarous land," Roscius exclaimed, trying to convince himself of his argument as much as others.


    "If you want peace, prepare for war," Fabius replied, almost in a whisper, perhaps quoting one of the writers that the would-be poet was so fond of.


    Yet Oppius barely heard the youth''s words, as he prepared to make his leap of faith.

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    Brine rather than sweat drenched his entire body as Oppius rose up from out of the sea, having leapt over the rail of the transport vessel. The silver eagle of the standard broke forth first from out of the foaming water, the sunlight glinting off its head and reflecting into the eyes of Caesar.


    Before he had jumped into the water Oppius had offered up the legionary''s prayer,


    "Jupiter Greatest and Best, protect this legion, soldiers every one. May my act bring good fortune to us all."


    Witnessing the act of a madman - and eyeing the prize - a brace of enemy cavalry broke off and charged towards the isolated standard bearer. The first horseman screamed wildly and raised his axe, ready to bring its flesh-stained head down upon the Roman''s shoulder and chest  -  yet instinct and timing kicked in as Oppius drove the standard upwards and into the torso of his enemy, knocking him off his coal-black mare. But where was the second horseman? Spray misted up in front of Oppius and stung his eyes. The second Briton was less obliging in offering up a war cry up to reveal his position, as he came at the Roman from the side. His sword edge was a foot or so from his enemy''s head  -  but it travelled no further as a Roman pilum sang through the air and skewered his stomach. Blood turned the blue dye purple.


    "And there you was thinking that you could defeat the bastards all by yourself," Roscius shouted and grinned. The brutal looking legionary had jumped into the water shortly after the standard bearer. He would have followed his friend into Hades, for he knew Oppius would do the same for him. Teucer and  -  more hesitantly  -  Marcus Fabius followed their comrades into the sea. The legion was shocked and irate at witnessing such a suicidal act. But as they witnessed another dozen or so horsemen ride towards the eagle they scrambled into the sea too and rallied around the valiant, or unhinged, standard bearer. The loss of the eagle would mean a loss of honour for all and the stain could never be washed away. Far more than Rome, the Tenth Legion fought for the Tenth Legion.


    At first Caesar cursed his aquilifer for such a rash act but his mouth, twisted in rage, soon formed itself into a smile. He had his spark. Now he needed to fuel the flames. Caesar immediately gave the order for his archers and artillery to provide covering fire. He also called for the captain of his own ship to close in on the beach. Caesar was keen to wash his sword in the blood of the irksome barbarians too.


    Individual splashes swiftly turned into one long whooshing tumult as the Seventh, not wishing for the Tenth to shame them or take all the glory, disembarked from their transports too. The legions formed themselves into make-shift shield walls and moved forward, some chest deep in the sea, their pilums held aloft to defend against the enemy''s cavalry. For all of their bravery and numbers the barbarian army could not prevent the Romans from driving forward and making it onto the beach.


    Rome had landed upon Britain.

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    The tang of blood and brine filled the air. The turquoise sea was streaked with gore. The clash of arms and blood-curdling screams drowned out the sound of the sea breeze. The Tenth had landed upon the beach, but it not captured it.


    "Teucer, climb upon that rock there and start loosening some arrows into some of these bastards," Oppius exclaimed whilst surveying the field of battle. The Tenth had landed upon the right side of the beach and upon the left the Seventh were taking casualties, but advancing nevertheless. Their enemy was fighting ferociously, but they were ill disciplined. Their light armour and weaponry made them agile but the legions were used to fighting against similar foes in Gaul (albeit the Britons seemed to have more spirit, perhaps fuelled by more wine). The standard bearer noticed an island of resistance forming at the back of the beach - centred around a giant Briton who appeared to be wielding a huge hammer. He was swotting away legionaries like flies, with shields buckling under the weight of his heavy blows.


    "Roscius, bring down that fat bastard with the hammer. He''s boring me."


    Roscius made his way towards the heart of the fighting, whilst Oppius was heartened to see how a group of Roman infantry had formed a square at the other end of the beach. A line of shields surrounded a group of legionaries, who were unleashing their pilums into a mass of enemy cavalry.


    "What would you like me to do sir?" Fabius asked, trying to dispel the fear from his voice and features.


    "Just stay close to me lad and try not to get yourself killed."


    Roscius assessed his enemy as he marched purposefully towards him. The savage brute was strong, but overweight and predictable. A half a dozen men from the Seventh formed a semi-circle around the barbarian, but they were wary of closing in having witnessed their comrades fail to bring the giant down.


    "Hey, shithead, why don''t you pick on somebody your own size?" Roscius announced, whilst throwing down his shield. The scutum would be an encumbrance for what the legionary had planned.


    The wild-eyed Briton stood even taller and wider than Roscius, a mix of flab and muscle. Blood  -  that of his foes rather than his own  -  flecked his face. He growled and ran towards the Roman, lifting the fearsome hammer above his head. Roscius moved just in time however and the large iron head of the mallet thudded into the sand, at which point the legionary swiftly lifted his foot up and brought it down upon the shaft of the weapon, splitting it in two. The Briton, his face twisted in even greater rage, swung what was left of the shaft at Roscius'' head but the Roman swung his sword in return and the gladius truncated the oak shaft even further. The blade of the sword met the barbarian''s fist too when he then swung a punch. His blood flecked the legionary''s face and he howled in pain  -  before the savage fell to his knees and Roscius buried the gladius in his chest.


    "Never send the Seventh in to do a job that only the Tenth can do," Roscius declared with relish at the end.


    Oppius glanced across the beach and nodded in approval at Rocius having defeated the troublesome barbarian. He was also pleased to see that his friend had come through the fight uninjured. The standard bearer again surveyed the battlefield. The tide was turning Rome''s way. The Britons were retreating as reinforcements now landed upon the beach without opposition. Caesar himself was leading a cohort from the front and spurring his men on. The standard bearer ordered Teucer to try to bring down a couple of the cavalry horses who were escaping up a narrow track that led up to the top of the cliffs. Should he fell the animals then they would hinder the retreat of the rest of the cavalry and infantry retreating up the path. A number of enemy archers and peltists still lined the tops of the cliffs and covered the retreating forces however.


    One such archer drew back his bow, with the standard bearer in his sights. The Briton had watched both his courageous leap into the water and his marshalling of legionaries as they arrived upon the beach. Both had been crucial to the imminent victory. At least he would stop the standard bearer invading Briton. His arms bulged with muscle as he drew the bow back, yet despite the tension in the string his body remained calm, composed. He took a deep breath and then released the arrow. His skill and technique as an archer were not dissimilar to Teucer''s.


    Oppius remained blindsided and did not notice the missile whistling down from above, aiming straight for his chest. The force of the arrow was such that it would piece through his breast plate  -  but yet it only went so far as to pierce through Marcus Fabius'' shield. The youth had seen the arrow and, positioned just next to Oppius, had reacted with speed and bravery to move his scutum aloft and across in time.


    Both Oppius and Fabius looked up at the cliffs to see where the missile had come from. The would-be assassin wore a scowl upon his face and pointed down at the standard bearer  -  and then drew a line across his neck. The Briton also wore a number of bronze bangles and an elaborate necklace to signify his importance. Before Oppius could scrutinize the savage more he spat out an indecipherable curse, turned away and disappeared.


    "It seems that that you''ve made an enemy already. At least it''s unlikely that you slept with his wife. But he was keen on killing you it seemed," Roscius exclaimed, walking towards his friend.


    "If that''s the case then the bastard can get in the queue. Now I suppose I better thank you lad for saving my life. I owe you one. Let this be a lesson to you though. The shield is mightier than the pen. I for one am glad your father wants you to be a soldier rather than poet."


    Marcus Fabius smiled, but blushed too. He was pleased that he had earned the standard bearer''s respect.


    "I''m wondering if I should join that queue," a stern voice issued from behind the standard bearer. Oppius turned to see Caesar standing before him, his face unreadable. Lucius had hoped that Caesar would have witnessed his bravery earlier, but his actions in putting the eagle at risk could as easily meet with punishment, as opposed to a reward. The legionary stood to attention before his commander, unable to look him in the eye, awaiting his fate.


    "After your actions today I cannot now have you serve as a standard bearer to the legion."


    Oppius'' heart sank, in unison with his face dropping. He felt too sorrowful, ashamed, to feel anger.


    "No, your actions today have left me with no other choice but to promote you to the rank of centurion," Caesar exclaimed, his marble features breaking out into a smile. Caesar then approached Oppius and warmly clasped him upon the shoulder.


    "Now stand at ease. I should be saluting you. I''m still undecided as to whether you''re mad, or just lucky, but I''d like you to join me for dinner this evening so I can finally make up my mind."

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    Oppius dressed himself, to the sound in the background of the legions felling trees and constructing the walls of the army''s camp. Caesar had defeated the enemy, but due to the absence of cavalry he could not rout them after forcing them off the beach. The legions would need to fortify themselves against a counter-attack. The newly promoted officer had ordered Fabius to wash his best tunic  -  and he permitted himself a smile upon thinking that it was the first order he had ever given to someone as a centurion. Oppius had also shaved and polished every piece of metal he had on display. He was perhaps more nervous about meeting Caesar for dinner than had been before any battle.


    "I knew his father Joseph," Caesar remarked to his manservant, a wizened Jew who had been part of the Julii household since before his birth. Although Joseph spent most of his time in Rome, Caesar would occasionally have the cynical and dry-witted servant attend him on campaign. "Gneaus Oppius. I remember Marius once saying that he was worth two cohorts."


    Joseph, who was just finishing up from shaving his master and rubbing oils to his skin, thought to himself how it was unlikely that Marius paid him the wages of two cohorts.


    "Sulla once said about Caesar that he saw many a Marius in me. I am hoping that similarly there is many a Gneaus Oppius within his son. I could use a man like that Joseph. But I fear I may be boring you with military matters my old friend. Tell me, what do you think of Britain?"


    "I''m not sure I''m the best person to ask. All I''ve seen of it so far is a beach full of corpses and a forest at night. I''m hopeful the sights will improve though. I confess that I prefer Rome. For one thing it rains less. From what I''m told, everywhere rains less than here. I also miss my wife - although I''m sure that I''ll be cured of any fondness I''m feeling for her once I see her again."


    Caesar smiled. He always enjoyed his conversations with his manservant. From an early age Joseph had used humour to temper his master''s seriousness, or he would become serious whenever Caesar grew too flippant.


    "I was confident that you''d somehow find a way to contain your excitement about the campaign Joseph. But we are close to the edge of the map here, writing a new chapter in the history of Rome," Caesar remarked whilst checking his hair and how his tunic hung in the large silver mirror his manservant placed before him.


    "Just make sure that your obituary''s not a footnote in that history," the Jew replied, unable to hide the worry and affection he carried for his master. He had neither been blind to his flaws nor greatness since an early age.


    "Would you miss me then Joseph, as much as your wife?" Caesar replied, touched and amused slightly by the sage old man''s rare show of emotion.


    "There are times when I miss my bouts indigestion more than my wife sir, if that''s anything to go by. No, I''m more concerned about being too old to break in a new master," Joseph replied, allowing himself a flicker of a smile as he packed away his jars of aromatic oils.


    Caesar let out a laugh.


    "Some people might say I give you too much licence Joseph."


    "Ignore such people sir. Clemency is a fine virtue, especially when displayed towards someone who holds a razor to your throat each day."


    "You are as wise as your people''s Solomon Joseph."


    "But not as rich, unfortunately."


    "You wouldn''t know how to spend such wealth if you had it."


    "No, but my wife would."


    Again Caesar laughed and again a flicker of a smile could be seen upon the wrinkled, good-natured face of his old servant. Partly, he was pleased to have cheered his master up. When he had first entered his quarters this evening Joseph had witnessed Caesar anxiously reading and replying to correspondence. Caesar had looked like he was about to fall off the edge of the map.

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    Lucius Oppius'' nerves increased when he realised that he would be dining with Caesar alone. The soldier was far more comfortable holding a gladius than a conversation. He awkwardly stood before his commander. Rain splattered upon the roof of the tent. Numerous lamps gave the room  -  for all intents and purposes a triclinium, given its furnishings  -  a homely glow. Some hours ago Caesar had looked every inch a General. Now, clad in a gleaming white tunic bordered with purple, Caesar appeared every inch an aristocrat. Fine wines and exotic foods adorned the table. Oppius also recalled once seeing Caesar in Rome at the Forum, every inch the statesman, dressed in a white toga, also bordered with purple. Despite his age, Caesar looked as fit and virile as any young officer. Oppius could smell a woman''s perfume lingering in the air and he thought about his commander''s reputation as a lover. Many a woman would just lie back, close her eyes and think of Rome when with most statesmen, but not with Caesar. He acted as if he were still in his prime  -  and perhaps he was, Oppius mused.


    Caesar welcomed the centurion and clasped his forearm in a Roman handshake.


    "Firstly  -  and most importantly perhaps  -  let''s get you a drink. I''m going to insist that you try the falernian. You''ll thank me for it," Caesar remarked, nodding to an attendant to pour a cup of the vintage.


    The wine and Caesar''s gregarious manner soon helped Oppius relax and the centurion was flattered to be asked his opinion about various matters of soldiering. Caesar again thanked his newly promoted officer for his actions that day too.


    "You captured my respect and loyalty today Oppius, as well that beach. You have earned my gratitude  -  and a promotion. Your father was a standard bearer too, no? He would be proud of you."


    Oppius was shocked and intrigued to hear Caesar mention his father. It seemed that it was only after his death that Oppius had started to get to know him, from stories from other legionaries. His father had spent little time at home when Oppius was young. He had resented back then how his father had devoted more time to the legion than to his own wife and son. Yet now he understood just how much the legion was its own family too, often full of orphans.


    "I met and knew your father a little. I was even there, with my uncle, on the day that he died in the arena. He fought bravely, like a lion. Unfortunately his combatant was a snake."


    Gneaus Oppius had died during a gladiatorial contest with a soldier from the Ninth Legion. The duel was meant merely to be a display of arms between two champions, to fight for the honour of their legions. Yet rumour had it that Gneaus'' opponent had baited his sword with poison. What seemed like a minor flesh wound at the time ultimately proved fatal.


    "If you are just half the soldier that your father was Lucius, then you''ll be twice as great a soldier as most."


    Oppius was at a loss as to how to respond. Should he feel like he should live in the shadow of his father, or have him serve as an example of the kind of soldier he should be? Perhaps witnessing his guest''s awkwardness Caesar changed the subject.


    "There has been plenty of conjecture, both back in Rome and among the men too I warrant, as to why I have come to this island. It''s certainly not for the women. I did acquaint myself with one of them however whilst in Gaul. She only spoke her native language but I considered that a blessing. Most women, like children, should be seen and not heard. But back to the matter. Some have judged that I have travelled to Britain in order to mine its tin and assess the rest of its natural wealth. Or  -  and in Cato''s eyes especially I dare say  -  I have invaded this land merely to satisfy my vanity and a lust for glory. Or I am here because of my love of pearls. Some have said that this is all a propaganda exercise, to furnish me with some colourful anecdotes for after dinner speaking. There is a grain or two or truth to all of these theories Lucius, but what I''d like to talk to you about is another reason why I have landed on this sodden isle."


    Caesar here leaned forward a little whist couched upon a sofa, as Oppius involuntary did so too - drawn in by his commander''s magnetism.

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    "Several months ago I received intelligence that one of our very own countrymen had landed upon these shores, charged with the task to recruit warriors to aid Gaul in the fight against our forces. Someone in Rome is conspiring against me. I do not lack enemies, nor am I averse to making more of them if needs be. The report went on to say that the agent possessed a knowledge of the language and a chest filled with gold. As you may have realised the number of Britons fighting in Gaul has increased over the past six months Lucius. This man is proving to be a thorn in our side."


    The charm and warmth went out of Caesar''s aspect as he spoke about the agent. His eyes were narrowed in scorn, his voice cold. Oppius could not help but despise the treacherous agent too, in sympathy.


    "The latest intelligence from my own agents suggests that he is recruiting among the tribes and villages in Kent, a region not far from here. You are familiar with the British archer in our ranks?"


    "Yes," Oppius replied, with a part of him now wishing that he didn''t know the man. For the centurion could sense what lay on the horizon.


    "And he is familiar with this area and that of Kent I believe. Do you trust him?"


    "Yes," Oppius again replied, cursing his own honesty and Teucer''s trustworthiness. Every "yes" was like a nail in his own coffin, he fleetingly thought.


    The rain thrummed upon the roof of the tent even louder and thunder rumbled in the distance. Bowls of squid, mushrooms, quail eggs and honey-glazed slices of pork lay before him, but Oppius no longer felt hungry.


    "Britain is far too hostile at present for me to send a cohort out to track down this recruiting officer. No, less will prove more. Two men will prove far more efficient than two hundred for the job ahead. I mentioned earlier Lucius how I couldn''t quite figure out if you were mad or lucky. Well I am now asking you to be mad and lucky. Mad enough to accept this mission, not that you have much choice in the matter unfortunately. And I also want you to be lucky enough to complete it," Caesar remarked, popping an olive into his mouth and smiling, as if amused by the shock that he had just inspired in his centurion.


    "And should I locate the agent," Oppius remarked.


    "Ideally I would like you to capture the rogue and bring him back to me, but failing that  -  kill him," Caesar replied, whilst grinning in an altogether different manner. "You have my blessing to torture him too, in order to extract the names of his employers out of him."


    Oppius finished the remainder of his blood-red wine. The falernian was a world away from the watered-down acetum he was used to drinking. Perhaps Caesar had opened the vintage as he suspected that it would be the soldier''s last good meal. Oppius thought how his father was considered a legend within the legion. He would now be making history too, Lucius grimly joked to himself, as the shortest ever serving officer with the legion. Promoted one day, killed the next.

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    After listening to Caesar run through some finer points of the mission the centurion was finally dismissed, with the General insisting that he take the remaining food and wine from the table and give it on to his unit. The rain abated not as Oppius made his way from Caesar''s tent back to his own. Yet getting wet was the least of the soldier''s problems. Never mind the rain, life was shitting upon him, he judged. He recalled one of Caesar''s last comments. Either he should return having completed his mission  -  or not bother returning at all. Caesar could display both warmth and a steely coldness within the space of a sentence.


    Rather than try to soften the blow for Teucer by giving him a measure or two of falernian first Oppius recounted his meeting  -  and disclosed their imminent mission  -  as soon as he returned.


    "With friends like you, who needs enemies?" the archer exclaimed, filling the air with curses  -  in Latin and his native tongue. "It''s a suicide mission, at best. Can we not somehow get out of it?"


    "Caesar''s not one to take to take no for an answer," Oppius replied, shaking his head. The centurion recalled how his co-consul, Bibulus, once tried to defy Caesar during their term in office. Caesar bullied and humiliated his colleague to such an extent - at one point even stooping to dump excrement over his fellow consul - that Bibulus remained in his house for the rest of the year. The people had called it "the consulship of Julius and Caesar", such was his dominance and will at getting his own way.


    "And he wants just the two of you to head into enemy territory and find this agent?" Roscius asked. Part of him felt relief at being excluded, but part of him felt uneasy at not being able to be there for Oppius.


    "I was all for volunteering you to join us but Caesar repeated that less is more. He said that we needed to be a blade, which cut through the land, rather than a hammer, trying to bludgeon our way to success."


    "Caesar is a bastard for ordering you to go on such a mission," Roscius replied, whilst also silently offering him thanks for providing the unit with a veritable banquet of food, to be washed down with plenty of wine.


    "Caesar is Caesar," Oppius responded, shrugging his shoulders.


    Within the hour however, after several cups of wine, the four men were toasting their commander  -  and raising their cups also to Oppius and Teucer. Roscius joked to the Briton if he could have his gladius if he didn''t come back, rather than inherit his bad luck. Fabius alone was quiet during the drinking session and banter. Oppius took him aside later that evening and said "to not to start mourning me yet lad," offering him a smile and the last quail''s egg. Oppius also took Roscius aside however and asked him to keep an eye on the youth - and make him practice his archery - until he returned. The Roman handshake the two friends gave each was firmer than usual that night.

 Page 10

    Oppius adjusted his trousers again in the muggy heat, feeling ill at ease in his woollen barbarian clothes. Trousers were unnatural he considered. The skirt of a tunic felt more natural, manly. The centurion also felt uncomfortable wearing bits of barbarian jewellery. A man was not supposed to jangle as he walked along. He missed the feeling of his gladius hanging from his belt too. He was duly armed with a dagger and bow however.


    "You look like a Briton," Fabius had remarked, whilst nodding in approval earlier that morning.


    "I look like a complete c-"


    "Convincing mercenary," Teucer remarked, cutting Oppius off.


    Teucer naturally looked and felt more comfortable as he walked alongside his friend  -  and he permitted himself an ironic smile that morning when he changed into the garb of his native land.


    Thankfully it had stopped raining. The two men walked, trying their best not to march, through a half-formed track in a wood and came out to look upon a lush valley. Lucius had to admit that Britain was an attractive and fertile land  -  or "a sometimes green and pleasant land," Teucer said.


    "This is Kent. The garden of Britain," the archer remarked, not without a little pride, as he gazed across the valley.


    "You''re still clearly fond of this land."


    "It''s my home, for better or for worse."


    "Why did you leave?"


    "It''s a long story."


    "It''s a long walk."


    Teucer, whose real name was Adiminus, was born into relative privilege in his tribe, being the youngest son of the region''s chieftain.


    "I was not the hardiest of children and my father took little notice of me, preferring to spend his energies on my elder brother, Caradog. They often hunted together. I was either too young or ill to join them. My mother doted upon her eldest son too. He was athletic and charismatic, although personally I grew to find him dull and often cruel. I was largely left to grow up by myself, although I possessed a curious mind and I would often spend time with visiting traders and craftsmen. Once I developed physically I also went off on my own and practised my archery. The harder you practise the luckier you get. Shortly after I came of age my father had a hunting accident, which left him crippled and bed-ridden. I began to spend a lot of time with him. Partly I felt sorry for my father and partly he grew to enjoy my company. He often asked me about the foreign ideas and stories that I had picked up from people who had visited the tribe over the years. I expressed to him how I wanted to one day leave the village and venture further afield, beyond Britain and Gaul even. He who knows only of the village knows nothing of the village, I somewhat conceitedly remarked to him. Trade and exchange, in the form of goods, skills and culture should be encouraged, I argued. Ideas should have sex with one another, to create new ideas. I dare say I sometimes bored myself with my zeal but my father I think was influenced by my arguments. He confided that he wanted me to succeed him as chieftain. "Don''t be the chieftain I was," he confessed one time to me... Recognising how close father and I had become  -  and seeing that my father was perhaps positioning me to succeed him  -  my brother became envious and resentful towards me. I suspect that Caradog hated me even more because I was neither envious nor resentful of him at this time... My father died and Caradog accused me of poisoning him. His death was sudden and suspicious; there was no real evidence against me though. Yet my brother swiftly poisoned the tribe''s minds against me and I was banished. My mother and a number of the tribal elders interceded to stop my being condemned to death... I think about it nigh on every day, whether my brother planned to have my father killed and to implicate me  -  but at the end of each day I''m no closer to discovering the truth."


    "Do you want revenge?" Oppius asked, thinking as much about his own father''s death as Teucer''s. He would sharpen, rather than bait, his sword if ever he encountered the man who had murdered him. And then challenge him in single combat.


    "I would much rather just have my father back," the archer replied, with a gentle but mournful expression on his face.

 Page 11

    The embers of dusk glowed akin to the embers of the ensuing camp fire that evening. Teucer trapped and cooked a couple of rabbits. Over supper the Briton schooled the Roman in a few choice words and phrases in his language that might get him out of trouble. Oppius would be attacked and executed instantly if he revealed himself to be a Roman, even if he pretended to be a deserter. In terms of deserting Oppius remarked how he would not blame Teucer if he had thoughts of deserting and returning home.


    "I do not want the garden of Britain to serve as your grave."


    "The legion is my home now. This mission may not be such a lost cause too. If there''s one thing a recruiting officer will do - it''s make himself available for a couple of mercenaries looking for employment," the Briton replied, his tone conveying twice the confidence that he felt inside.


    The two men set off early the next morning and soon came to a large settlement. From the intelligence provided by Caesar, Teucer thought it was a good a place as any to locate the Roman agent. Oppius was far from overwhelmed by the village of Gowdhust. The houses were rickety, at best. Hope and prayers, far more than building materials and architectural skills, kept most of the dwellings upright. Wild-eyed children scampered about, ankle deep in mud and grime. The entire settlement smelled like a sewer, Oppius thought to himself, scrunching up his face in disgust upon first being assaulted by the stench.


    The only cheer emanated from the hut which housed and served alcohol.


    "Well if I were recruiting for the army I''d head for the nearest place which served alcohol. If you wait here, I''ll see if I can find some answers," Teucer remarked and headed off to the hut where a bunch of Britons were either roaring with laughter or asleep in a corner. Oppius tried not to look conspicuous whilst wearing a scowl upon his face, to help dissuade anyone from approaching him. The unwelcoming expression was little different to the one he normally wore. The inhabitants of the settlement seemed little interested in the stranger however. They had seen plenty of mercenaries in their time and raised not their pale, drawn faces to the large archer as they walked by him.


    Thankfully Teucer returned relatively quickly. He bought a couple of lose-tongued barbarians a drink (although Caesar did not furnish the centurion with a cohort for the mission, he did furnish him with plenty of gold) and then came back after downing his drink.


    "The bad news is it seems we missed our quarry by a day or so. But the good news is I know where he''s heading."


    "The worst news is that the agent is travelling with a bodyguard of three picts," the Briton remarked as the two men walked toward the next major settlement.


    "Picts?" Oppius replied, only half concentrating on his friend as he shook his head in disapproval again at the quality of the road that they were travelling on. Numerous wagon tracks scarred the ground and the path seemed to meander more than the Tiber. Britain would not be built in a day, but Rome would build it up, the centurion thought to himself.


    "They''re from the north. They''ve got a language, dress sense and cuisine all of their own  -  which you''d want them to keep for themselves. With their red hair, pale skin and rasping war cry they''ll be some of the scariest foes you''ve ever encountered. And their women are even scarier. Indeed this trio are probably down from their home to get away from their wives," Teucer expressed, half in jest. "But these picts could prove formidable. They fight hard and dirty. Think of this agent as being protected by Roscius, times three. Caesar and Rome would do well not to poke the hornet''s nest of the tribes in the far north."


    Oppius and Teucer had little time to worry about barbarians from the north however, as they were soon attacked by local brigands.

 Page 12

    Rain began to spit down again from a slate coloured sky. Leaves rustled and then bracken snapped.


    They appeared quickly, in two pairs, from either side of the dense woodland that the road ran through. All four of the young men had their bows drawn. Oppius briefly thought to himself if the youths had camouflaged themselves, or it they were naturally grimy and feral. Both Oppius and Teucer knew that they were at a disadvantage and resisted reaching for their weapons.


    The apparent leader of the brigands stepped forward and occupied the middle of the road. The youth had a sinewy body, harelip and sadistic aspect, which shone as brightly as the dagger he held up, after slinging his bow back over his shoulder.


    "This here is our road  -  and you need to pay a toll."


    Teucer fancied that he would gladly have paid the toll if he thought that it would have gone to the upkeep of the road.


    Oppius assessed the situation. The youths would be easy to best, just as soon as they lowered their bows. With three of them still training their bows on the two of them it was likely that at least one of them would not escape falling to the brigands. Already the centurion noticed how their arms were tiring though, whilst also grinning inanely as they thought about what they would spend their booty on. They would also soon switch to holding their daggers too as greed overtook them and they searched their victims for any valuables they possessed. The two brigands to his right, nearest to him, looked strong but unskilled. He would allow Teucer to deal with their leader in front of him and the pock-marked barbarian to his left.


    "Let''s not fuck about. What have you got on you?"


    Both soldiers, thinking the same thing, merely raised their arms  -  willing to be searched  -  rather than retrieved their valuables themselves. The lead brigand paused however, just as he was about to search Teucer.


    "Do I know you?" he asked, squinting suspiciously at the archer.


    "Doubtful. I probably would have killed you if we had met before."


    "No, I do know you. You''re Adiminus. This, lads, is the brother of our chieftain. Caradog should reward us if we bring him back with us," the youth remarked, his harelip curling even more, in a smirk.


    "How is my brother?"


    "He''s doing a lot better than you, by the looks of it," he replied, with a snigger. His companions grinned at his joke too. Two of them slung their bows over their shoulders and removed their hunting knives.


    "And how is my mother?"


    "She''s dead. She crossed over a year ago."


    "Give her my regards, when you see her."


    "What? You should be worried about the kind of regards your brother is going to show you. He''ll welcome you with a campfire  -  and then cook you on it," the brigand replied, letting out a laugh.


    They all now looked at each other and laughed. It was the distraction that the professional soldiers had been waiting for. In one swift, smooth movement Teucer gripped the brigand by the throat in one hand and plucked an arrow from the quiver on his back with the other  -  and plunged it into his enemy''s right eye. The blood curdling scream cut through the air, as all matter of creatures retreated further into the woods, frightened by the unnatural noise. Reacting at the same time  -  and with the same swiftness - Oppius pulled out his dagger and threw it into the barrel-chest of the youth who still had an arrow nooked upon his bow. Shortly afterwards he was attacked by the other brigand to his right. Oppius caught his knife-hand though as he was about to slash  -  and slammed his forearm into his opponent''s face, crunching and crushing the cartilage in his nose. Oppius then twisted his hand back so the brigand relinquished his dagger to him. The blood gushing from his face soon ran into that coming from his throat, as the centurion sliced open his neck. Oppius looked up to check where the remaining brigand was, readying himself to fend him off  -  but all he could see was a figure racing through the forest. The wood was too dense for Teucer to take him down with a shot from his bow.


    "How far is the nearest village?" Oppius asked, concerned that the remaining brigand could quickly raise a larger force.


    "Far enough, but we should get moving," the Briton replied, seemingly unmoved by the news about his mother and older brother.

 Page 13

    Evening fell.


    Caesar finally dismissed his legates and high-ranking centurions. On his own, he sighed and buried his head in his hands, his elbows resting upon a make-shift map unfurled upon the table. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples. Not even Servilia was this exhausting, he joked to himself. The encampment was fortified though and supplies sufficient, for now. Yet a prospective shortage of food and the absence of his cavalry meant that he could not make further inroads into Britain and satisfy his ambitions. He sighed again and screwed up his face in disdain as he thought of how he would have to court and win over some of the local tribal chieftains. It should have been that they needed to court and win him over. Perhaps he should make an example of one of the tribes  -  and the rest might fall into line. Yet such an action could galvanise them against him. Yet they already seemed to have allied themselves against him. Original intelligence had suggested that factional in-fighting would prevent a grand alliance. Was it the case that the Roman agent on these shores was not just recruiting soldiers for Gaul, but conspiring with the tribes here to defeat him?


    Caesar briefly turned his thoughts to his new centurion and wondered how he was progressing. He had fought well in the shallows upon the beach; Caesar envisioned that he would fare equally well upon being thrown in at the deep end. One of the legates had approached him that day, saying that one of Oppius'' comrades, one Roscius, said that he would be willing to be sent out to help the centurion with his mission. Caesar admired the centurion for the loyalty and friendship he had inspired but he refused the request. At the very least he hoped that Oppius would be able to kill the traitor. Joseph had asked him the other evening that if the centurion returned and said that he had completed his mission and murdered the agent how would he know if he was telling the truth?


    "Soldiers are honest souls Joseph - it''s a politician who you need to distrust when he promises you something."


    Caesar next turned his attention to some of the correspondence on his table. Letters from Brutus, Pompey and Balbus all needed responding to. Yet the first letters he replied to were that of Julia, his daughter, and Octavius, his young nephew. He smiled upon reading Julia''s letter when she mentioned overhearing Cicero at a party.


    "Do you know any man, even if he has concentrated on the art of oratory to the exclusion of all else, who can speak better than Caesar? Or anyone who makes so many witty remarks? Or whose vocabulary is so varied and yet so exact?"


    He smiled, partly because Cicero was the sole person who Caesar would have said the above in relation to as well. Although he did not always share his politics, Caesar was constant in his admiration for the former consul. He thought of how he would try to introduce Octavius to the great writer and statesman when he was next in Rome.


    Caesar heard someone approach and he wiped the expression of fatigue off his face, as if he were wiping away a film of sweat. As it was Joseph however who entered Caesar soon wore tiredness  -  and warmth  -  in his features. He could not help but yawn though.


    "You should get some sleep," the old Jewish servant remarked, in a spirit of both fussiness and concern.


    "I''ve got too much on my mind. I''m finding it difficult to sleep."


    "Perhaps I could make boring you to sleep part of my official duties."


    "And how would you go about fulfilling such a duty?"


    "Hmm, I could either recite some of Cato''s speeches  -  or tell you about the most interesting dish British cuisine has to offer."

 Page 14

    The coals upon the brazier burned as intensely as the heated look in the chieftain''s eyes. Caradog flared his nostrils and stared at the breathless pock-marked youth who had just delivered the news, that not only had three of his warriors been slain but that his brother had returned. Had he come back to take his revenge? Caradog creased his brow in thought  -  and worry. If Adiminus had returned to take his revenge however, why was he travelling in the opposite direction to his village? Caradog angrily dismissed his attendants  -  and even the woman he intended to take tonight. She could have the pleasure of his company and favour another time.


    The jewellery-laden chieftain poured himself a large measure of wine. His mind was filled with a hundred thoughts, breeding like rats. He could not ultimately find out his brother''s intentions until he encountered him. He could not ultimately live in peace until his brother was dead. First the Romans arrived, unsettling the region  -  and now his brother had returned to cause him personal disquiet. Yet were the two things related? Caradog recalled how one of his archers had reported seeing his brother fighting alongside the Romans on the beach. The chieftain had laughed at the idea at the time, but now it made sense. Should Adiminus now be serving in the Roman army  -  and rather than being a deserter Caradog judged that he was gathering intelligence for the enemy - then he would need to make his way back to their camp upon the south coast. His plan of action would be to send a small force to pursue his brother, but Caradog would also lead a small force of his own to lie in wait for him when he returned to camp. He believed he knew the route his brother would take. Wine stained his teeth as he grinned, wolfishly, thinking of how Adiminus always fancied himself as an archer and trapper. Caradog would now show his brother that he was superior to him in both of those trades.

 Page 15

    Midday.


    Oppius waited just inside the tree line at the edge of the settlement, sharpening his knife, as Teucer returned from his reconnaissance mission.


    "He''s here. He''s pouring lies into their ears and drinks down their throat in that large hut closest to us. The three picts are with him. They''ve been drinking, but they can hold their drink as well as hold their own fighting anyone. They''re well armed, carrying shields as well as swords and axes. I overheard which settlement they''ll be heading to next  -  and they''ll be heading along the track leading this way into the forest."


    "We''ll lie in wait for them here. We shouldn''t allow them to get into the forest, as our bows will be redundant there. At the same time we should wait until they''re away from the hut. We don''t want his new recruits entering the fray. Do you see that tree stump by the track? We''ll hit them there. There''s no cover. We''ll both take out one of the bodyguards with our bows. The third will prove more difficult as his shield will be up. I''ll race over to take him out at close quarters whilst you wing the agent, to prevent him escaping. Shoot him in the arse or leg."


    "Are you looking to capture, rather than kill, him then? And bring him back with us?" the archer asked, his tone laced with a warning at how difficult the task could prove.


    "Yes. Those are our orders. To quote one of Fabius'' poems, ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die. What''s that though?" Oppius asked, nodding his head towards an item Teucer had brought back with him, wrapped in cloth.


    "A present," the Briton replied, handing over the bundle.


    The centurion unfolded the cloth and held up the gladius, the polished steel glinting as brightly as the soldier''s aspect.


    "Someone was selling it as a spoil of war. I thought you might like it."


    "It''s the gift that keeps on giving," Oppius remarked.


    The two men did not have long to wait before the picts, forming a triangle around the agent, appeared. Teucer had not been exaggerating about the size and strange fearsomeness of the northern Britons. They all seemed as large and powerful as Roscius. All were crowned with shaggy locks of long red hair. Oppius thought they might be brothers, such was their similar appearance. Although Teucer had remarked how incest was as popular as drinking in some parts of the country. In contrast to the picts surrounding him the agent was slight, spindly. He was dressed like a barbarian but pick off that scab and Oppius would recognise the kind of haughty Roman who could tax both your patience and income. The centurion recalled Caesar''s comment the other evening, how he distrusted men with a lean and hungry look. It seems he was right in this instance. The agent carried a dagger, but had the look of a politician rather than soldier. He was more likely to stab himself with the weapon, rather than anyone else, Oppius fancied.


    Both men took a breath and nooked an arrow.


    "You take out the one in front of the agent. I''ll deal with the one on his left," the centurion ordered, his tone devoid of emotion. Soldiers killed people. Lucius Oppius was a soldier. Therefore Lucius Oppius killed people. The syllogism appeared as straight and true to the centurion as Teucer''s aim.

 Page 16

    Teucer breathed out in time to the sound of the arrow sighing as it left his bow. The arrowhead pierced through the pict''s long red beard and into his throat  -  his life extinguished in a half-formed gurgle. The intake of breath from his cousin was taken in both shock and pain as Oppius'' arrow buried itself easily and deeply into his stomach. This time a scream and then groan did cause the air to shudder. Mourning his comrades not however the third bodyguard raised his large shield up in a defensive position and ordered the agent to stand behind him. The agent barely heard the Briton though as he raced away in the opposite direction to the attack. He caught the sight and sound of an arrow whistle past him as Teucer tried to shoot him in the leg and bring him down.


    Oppius covered the ground between the tree line and his enemy quickly, drawing his gladius as he did so. The remaining pict unsheathed a large Roman cavalry sword, a spartha, in reply  -  another spoil of war. The centurion took in his opponent. He was equal, if not superior, in size and strength to the Roman. As the barbarian snarled he noticed that there were plenty of gaps where teeth once resided. Few Britons seemed to have good teeth. His nose was as crooked as a Roman tax collector. A long red welt of a scar, in the shape of a lightning bolt, ran across his chest.


    Swords clashed upon each other. The barbarian roared wildly, but there was still method in his madness. He was agile for his size and his power made up for any deficiencies in technique. The centurion tried to get inside but the large sword and shield kept him at bay. Oppius believed that he could perhaps ultimately defeat his opponent if he kept chipping away at him and picked his moments  -  but as he caught the agent escaping out of the corner of his eye he realised that time was of the essence in nullifying the bodyguard.


    Oppius soon formed a plan. He tried to keep his distance from the pict, parrying any attack, and used his footwork to circle his enemy. The barbarian smirked, sensing that he had the beating of his now defensive minded opponent. He grinned at his ambusher  -  but one of the last sights the barbarian would see was that of his enemy smiling back at him, as an arrow from Teucer struck him in the spine. The pict arched his back in pain, his arms were spread-eagled. Oppius wasted little time in stepping in and slashing his gladius across his opponent''s unprotected chest. Lightning can strike twice in the same place.


    As much as Oppius would grant a portion of respect to his opponent for his skill and courage as a fighter, he stood over his defeated enemy not  -  but rather set off in pursuit of the agent immediately. Confusion and fear had driven the Roman to head off in the opposite direction to the settlement. His fear and confusion increased when his pursuer caught up with him, zigzagging between the trees, and called out to halt, in his native language. Where words slowed the agent not, Oppius'' knife did  -  as he threw the blade into the back of his prey''s thigh during a clearing in the woods.


    Both men panted as they attempted to catch their breath, whilst the agent winced in pain upon the ground too.


    "Who are you working for?" the agent scornfully exclaimed, offering his enemy a look that was as sharp as the dagger in his leg.


    "It''s customary for the captor to ask the questions. Now, who are you working for? Tell me, or I''ll cut everything out of you, except your tongue," the centurion replied, drawing his sword and smiling sadistically. Should somehow he be unable to bring the agent back to Caesar for interrogation, Oppius thought it prudent to try and extract some information now.


    "I refuse to talk to you," the agent spat back with disdain. "You''re just a soldier, a dog. You''re no better than my barbarian bodyguards."


    "I''d rather be a dog than a snake in the grass. And if I''m no better than your bodyguard, at least I can say that I''ve got more life in me than them. Now tell me who you''re working for."


    "Never. I am armed with my philosophy. My stoicism will act as a shield against any of your bribes or threats," the agent announced, his intended boldness not quite being mirrored in his reedy, quivering voice.


    "Your shield didn''t perform too well deflecting my dagger. It''s doubtful it''ll be able to blunt the point of my sword. Everybody talks  -  and sooner rather than later," Oppius replied, slightly distracted by the appearance of Teucer.


    "I see you caught up with the bastard. Has he talked yet? I''d be happy to loosen his tongue, in either language."


    "He''ll talk. Caesar will make him scream more than any woman he''s been with. But how are things out there?"


    "We''ve started to cause a stir. A few people have just seen the bodies. We should leave, now."


    "I will take my leave of you too. My death is the final duty I owe to my master. A plague be on the tyrant, Caesar," the agent exclaimed as he clutched his dagger and, though his features were twisted in fear and hesitation, he closed his eyes and rammed the point of the knife into his neck. Oppius was too far away to prevent the agent''s sudden and dramatic action. Blood gushed from the mortal wound and his face quickly became ashen.


    "At least we won''t have to now carry the bastard back with us and listen to his yammering," Teucer remarked, after a pause.


    "Let''s return to the camp. I''ve seen enough of the garden of Britain not to want to see any more of it," the centurion replied, disappointed that he would not be able now to bring the agent before Caesar and unmask the traitor in Rome.

 Page 17

    Evening.


    The canopy of the trees sheltered the two soldiers from the rain as they sat close to their small fire and finished sucking the bones dry of the two wood pigeons that the archer had brought down.


    "Some argue that the channel provides your greatest, natural defence against invasion. Instead I think it''s your weather. No one will want to conquer a land in which it rains so much," Oppius remarked, whilst tossing another piece of wood onto the fire.


    "Never mind the rain. Which way do you think the wind will blow, in regards to what Caesar will do next? Did he give you any indication at your dinner?"


    "Caesar wishes to re-draw the maps and frontiers of the world, but ultimately Rome is his home. Also securing peace in Gaul is more important than making war in Britain. I warrant that we''ll be sailing back soon."


    "Do you consider Rome to be your home too? Do you have anyone waiting for you? Who wants to see you?"


    "My mother still lives in a village outside of Rome. There''s also my ex-wife. Whether she wants to see me or not the channel and climate will thankfully help keep her at bay," the centurion remarked, breaking off another leg of his wood pigeon as he did so.


    "Did you not love her once? Is there still a spark?"


    "It was lust more than love, attraction more than affection," Oppius replied, looking wistful for once.


    "What happened?"


    "The usual. Life gets in the way of love. I didn''t spend enough time with her  -  and she spent too much of my money. What about you? Is there a particular flower in the garden of Britain that you pine for?"


    "There used to be too many  -  I was the chieftain''s son after all  -  which is why there was never just one. Sometimes I feel I missed out. I''m not sure how much of our love lives could serve as an inspiration for Fabius'' poetry."


    "My job is to teach him how to kill rather than kiss."


    "I''m sure Fabius prefers that scenario too."

 Page 18

    Late morning.


    Just as Oppius and Teucer came out upon a field from leaving the forest the sun similarly came out from behind a flock of pink clouds. They were almost home.


    "It looks like that we may just make it back alive. Things went more smoothly than I thought," the Briton remarked, squinting a little in the sunlight.


    "Don''t tell Caesar that. It may encourage him to send us out again behind enemy lines," the centurion replied, half thinking about how Caesar would react to his success, or lack of, in regards to the mission.


    "Aye, it''s a shame we don''t have any war wounds to show him when we get back, to prove how much we''ve been to Hades and back."


    No sooner had the Briton finished speaking than he let out a cry, as an arrow slammed into his though, cutting through skin, sinew and muscle. He fell to one knee and nearly passed out. Oppius looked up to see a brace of arrows flying towards him. He quickly dove to his left to avoid the missiles, which thudded into the ground just behind to where the centurion had been standing. When Oppius looked up he saw half a dozen barbarians, armed with bows, rushing towards him from out of the trees. The ground shook beneath him as another barbarian galloped towards Teucer upon a horse. Oppius would be struck by at least three arrows before he would have the time to draw his bow and unleash just one in return.


    "Adminus, put the bow down. I meant to shoot you in the leg. I can as easily arrange to shoot you in the head," Caradog called out whilst riding towards his brother.


    Blood seeped out from Teucer''s wound, as did any feelings of hope or revenge it seemed. He placed his bow on the ground. He glanced at Oppius, who was being surrounded by a trio of savage but skilled warriors, their bodies smeared with sweat and woad. Caradog glanced at the centurion too  -  with a look of recognition, an expression twisted in contempt.


    "It''s you. Roman bastard," the cruel-faced Briton exclaimed  -  and then spat at the centurion. "Tell your foreign friend that I missed him on the beach, but I won''t miss him again."


    It dawned upon Oppius who the barbarian was. He recognised the same jewellery. The same hatred. Although he could not understand what he was saying, Oppius sensed that he was not inviting him to share his lunch. When Teucer finished translating the centurion met the barbarian''s vicious glare and replied.


    "Tell your brother that I''ll only require one shot. I won''t need a second."


    Before Teucer was able to reply however Caradog spoke.


    "Why did you come back?"


    "I missed the weather."


    "You have a joke for everything brother, but I''ll have the last laugh. Now, unless you know them yourself, ask your friend what Caesar''s plans are?"


    "He doesn''t know anything."


    "Burning him alive might help him cook up some thoughts."


    Teucer translated the question for Oppius, although the centurion gazed off into the distance somewhat, seemingly distracted. Perhaps he was collecting his final thoughts, or praying. Oppius thought about the question for a moment or two and then replied.


    "What are Caesar''s plans for Britain? To encourage Britons to start dyeing their clothes instead of their bodies."

 Page 19

    The chieftain manoeuvred his horse over towards the foreigner and kicked him in the face, in reply to his insolence.


    "Your brother is as hospitable as the climate," Oppius remarked to Teucer. He smiled, in defiance. The smile was also due to the fact that half of his captors had now slung their bows back over their shoulders.


    "The Roman will eventually reveal what he knows of Caesar''s plans. Everybody talks. I''ll be more open and reveal my plans to you. I''m going to take you both back to the village. I''ll take as much pleasure in keeping him alive  -  and torturing him just for the fun of it  -  as killing our unwanted visitor to these shores. And as for you brother, I''ll be having you for dinner. You''ll be your own last meal," the chieftain remarked and laughed, inspiring mirth in his warriors too. As his brother grinned Teucer noticed his filed, sharpened, teeth. His brother was a cannibal.


    "And did you put poison in father''s last meal?"


    "This question has probably been eating away at you for years little brother, no? I am nothing if not a merciful leader though and I will put you out of your misery. I poisoned him. But you, through your grab for power in trying to usurp me, killed him."


    Sadness and anger swelled up in his stomach and Teucer''s fingers crept closer to the knife upon his belt. Despite his wound he would attempt to stand and kill his brother. Oppius witnessed the look in Teucer''s eye and saw him slowly reaching for his dagger. The centurion knew however that he would be cut down by an archer before he had a chance to attack his brother. Oppius decided that it was time.


    "Caradog," the Roman exclaimed, attracting the attention of the chieftain. Oppius met his enemy''s baleful stare and then drew his finger across his throat as a sign.


    The chieftain looked somewhat confused and amused, yet an expression of alarm soon clouded his face as he heard the sound of two arrows thud into the backs of two his archers. As soon as the arrows struck Oppius drew his knife and threw it into the remaining warrior who had an arrow upon his bow. Roscius and another legionary, unknown to the centurion, appeared from out of the trees and ran towards the enemy, roaring to distract the Britons from their prisoners. Two of the barbarians drew out arrows from their sheaths. Yet just as they both nooked their arrows they were both struck in the chests by pilums, launched with deadly accuracy and power by the advancing legionaries.


    Sensing defeat Caradog turned his horse around and abandoned the fight, riding in the opposite direction to his enemy. The remaining barbarian drew his large hunting knife and ran towards Teucer, who still remained on the ground from his wound. He would at least kill one of the bastards, before fleeing too. He stood over the helpless, weakened Adiminus. But rather than his blade meeting the neck of his enemy it clanged against Oppius'' sword. The warrior attacked the Roman but, after parrying the Briton''s offensive, Oppius stepped inside and butted his opponent in the face, disorientating him enough to then slash the barbarian''s face, twice.


    His heart raced in unison with the tamp of his brother''s horse upon the turf. As heavy as his eyelids felt the biting pain in his thigh kept him conscious. Teucer propped himself up as best as he could upon the ground. The grass felt cold, or perhaps it was his body growing colder, dimmer. He took a breath and nooked an arrow. Teucer grimaced as he pulled back the bow, aiming out the corner of his eye. He followed the course of the arrow not as it arced in the air and lodged itself in the back of his brother''s throat.

 Page 20

    Oppius wiped his sword upon his trousers, which he hoped he would never have to wear again, and looked up to see Fabius appearing from out of the trees, along with another young recruit, clutching a bow too.


    "We were in the area, for archery practise of all things," Roscius exclaimed, grinning.


    "Well as Teucer says, the harder you practice the luckier you get," Oppius replied whilst the two men gave each other another firm, meaningful handshake. As ever, much remained unsaid between the two friends and soldiers. "Fabius, I could get used to you helping to save my life. I may have to write a poem in your honour," the centurion called out to the recruit. "Now attend to Teucer, before I have to give you another compliment."


    The youth smiled sheepishly and attended to his comrade.


    "I must thank you too, legionary," Oppius remarked to the soldier who had rushed out of the forest with Roscius.


    The soldier turned around, after pulling his javelin out of the barbarian. He was older than Oppius, a veteran. His build was compact, his body marked with scars.


    "Thank me with a drink, or four, and we''ll be even," the veteran replied, grinning as he found a couple of gold coins upon the dead Briton. As he smiled Oppius noticed that one of his front teeth was missing and the other one was chipped.


    "Lucius, meet Tiro Casca," Roscius remarked.


    "I served a little with your father. He was a good man, tough as leather. It seems you can handle yourself in a fight too. I also saw you on the beach. You''re your father''s son," Tiro Casca announced, nodding in approval and respect.

 Page 21

    When they returned to camp Caesar assigned his own personal physician and surgeon to attend to the wounded archer. He also instructed his cook to muster up anything that the returning heroes wanted. Such were the appetites of Tiro Casca and Roscius that the cook was as verily exhausted as Oppius by the end of the feast. Before he could eat however the centurion delivered his report to his commander on the success of his mission.


    "I am indebted to you Lucius. You have served Caesar and Rome in a way that is above and beyond the call of duty. In the past few days you have completed a mission that not even an entire cohort could have managed. It''s only fair then that I reward you and the Briton with the equivalent wage of a cohort for the past few days. Please do not insult me by thinking of refusing my offer. Leave the curse of pride to Caesar," the General announced, finishing off a piece of correspondence whilst talking.


    "Can I accept on behalf of my mother and arrange to send any payment back home? The money will make her comfortable in her remaining years."


    After the debriefing Caesar ordered the centurion to eat, rest and return that evening for a light supper.


    Before returning to his tent however Oppius visited Teucer, who was resting in bed after his surgery. Despite all they had shared over the past few days  -  or because of it  -  the conversation between the two comrades was a little stilted. Finally, after one of many pauses, Oppius announced,


    "If you like I can petition Caesar for you should you wish to remain here. Your tribe needs a chieftain."


    But the Briton shook his head, in a mixture of sadness and relief.


    "I''m afraid you''re going to have to suffer my company some more. There''s nothing left for me here, not even an embittered ex-wife."


    "Britain''s loss is Rome''s gain. Now get some rest," Oppius replied, fraternally squeezing the archer on the shoulder.


    "You should give yourself the same order. You look tired, as though you''ve been out all night with Roscius, drinking."


    "I will. I''m so fucking exhausted that I won''t even need to read some of Fabius'' poetry to send me off to sleep."


    Rain began to drum upon the roof of the tent again and both men briefly looked up, rolled their eyes and smiled wistfully.

 Page 22

    Outside the tent a bulbous moon and a treasure trove of stars lit up the night sky, majestically and coldly imperious towards the squalid world beneath.


    Inside braziers flanked the General. Servants continued to bring in all manner of dishes for the "light supper." He would definitely need Roscius by his side should his next mission be to clear the table of food, the centurion thought to himself.


    "Marius once said me that, rather than a great centurion, give me a lucky one. It seems that you may be both Oppius," Caesar exclaimed, popping another salted olive in his mouth and washing it down with diluted wine. "Firstly, how is Teucer?"


    "He''ll live. I am sorry again that I could not keep the agent alive. We learned nothing."


    "There''s no need to apologise. We also learned more than you might think too. The manner of his death and his zealous devotion to stoicism has given me food for thought as to the identity of his employer. We also confirmed the existence of a conspiracy  -  and doused the flames of the treachery. It will be some time before news of his death will reach his master back in Rome. Recruitment will dry up during that time. Similarly it will take a while for someone to take the place of the agent. During that respite I will look to defeat our enemies across the channel  -  be they Gauls, Britons or Romans."


    "So are we returning to Gaul?"


    "Not all of us, all at once. But you will be returning with me. You''ve proved yourself to be of far too much use. You''ve become a victim of your own success. Although I have promoted you to centurion Lucius, you''re still my standard bearer. But rather than a silver eagle, I want you with a sword in your hand  -  bloodied with the enemies of Rome and Caesar. There is a storm on the horizon. Gaul has only been half-tamed, civilised. There are still weeds in our garden there to pull up. The business of Britain and Rome can wait."


    Oppius observed the good-humoured glint in his commander''s eye go out again, clouded over with a furrowed brow and expression of icy determination.


    Later that evening, after the centurion had been dismissed, Joseph looked in on his master. The braziers were still glowing, but barely. Caesar was finishing off some correspondence, a letter to Brutus. Caesar''s relationship with his mother had been long and intense. He looked upon Brutus as being like a son. He had encouraged him in his studies, taught him soldiering. As he wrote to Brutus though Caesar could not help but sneer as he thought about the other father-figure in his life, his uncle  -  Cato.


    "Would you like anything before I go to bed?"


    "No thank you Joseph. Get some rest. Try to get some for me too," Caesar replied, wearily.


    As he stood by his master the old servant couldn''t fail to notice how the map of Britain on the table had been replaced by one of Gaul. He squinted in the half-light, attempting to read the name of the town Caesar had recently circled.


    Alesia.


    End Note.


    Since the release of Augustus: Son of Rome I have received a number of letters asking about when the follow-up will be published. The reply has been "not yet". I fear that the reply may remain "not yet" for some time, due to other commitments. I hope that the Sword of Rome series will provide some compensation though in the form of a prequel, as opposed to sequel. For those of you who have read Standard Bearer without having first read Augustus: Son of Rome you may be interested to know that the characters of Oppius, Roscius, Tiro Casca and Julius Caesar all feature heavily throughout Augustus: Son of Rome too.


    Thanks as always to Matthew Lynn and everyone at Endeavour Press.


    Should you be interested in some further reading then I can recommend the works of Adrian Goldsworthy, particularly his biography of Julius Caesar and also In The Name Of Rome. The works of Cicero, Suetonius and Plutarch are classics for good reasons too. If interested in reading more historical fiction on Rome then I can recommend Conn Iggulden, Steven Saylor, Simon Scarrow and Robert Harris.


    Should you have enjoyed Standard Bearer or Augustus: Son of Rome and wish to get in touch I can be reached via


    [email protected]


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    This book is dedicated to John McGrath  -  courageous, smart, stoical and fun.