Contents

About the Author

By the same author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Map
How to Use this eBook

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12

Historical Note – the Kingdom of Kush

The Roman Army in AD 182
 About the Author

Anthony Riches holds a degree in Military Studies from Manchester

University. He began writing the story that would become the first
novel in the Empire series, Wounds of Honour, after visiting
Housesteads Roman fort in 1996. Married with three children, he
now lives in Norfolk.

Find out more about his books at www.anthonyriches.com.

By the same author

Empire
Wounds of Honour
Arrows of Fury
Fortress of Spears
The Leopard Sword
The Wolf’s Gold
The Eagle’s Vengeance
The Emperor’s Knives
Thunder of the Gods
Altar of Blood
The Scorpion’s Strike

The Centurions
Betrayal
Onslaught
Retribution
 RIVER OF GOLD
Empire: Volume Eleven
 
 Anthony Riches
 
 
 
 

www.hodder.co.uk
 First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company

Copyright © Anthony Riches 2020

The right of Anthony Riches to be identified as the Author of the

Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Maps © Rodney Paull

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior
written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in
any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library

eBook ISBN 978 1 473 62886 1

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

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www.hodder.co.uk
For Helen
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My first thanks must go to the editorial staff at Hodder & Stoughton,

led by my long-suffering editor Carolyn Caughey, who manages to
stay eternally cheerful even when the author, not the most reliable of
deliverers, is forced by external pressures to delay manuscript
completion by months at a time. My agent Robin Wade remains a
constant, reassuring presence even if, after fourteen books, I’m quite
laid-back about the whole thing.
For inspiration of much of the storyline, this book’s first prize has
to go to Malcolm Quartey, whose amazing web page (detailed in the
historical note – warning, contains spoilers) on the Wildfire Games
website (and thanks to Wildfire too, for that matter) came at just the
right time when I was scratching around for a new enemy to give
Tribune Scaurus and his familia a suitably hard time in Aegyptus.
The discovery of this new and (to me) unknown power in the ancient
world was something of a revelation, and all the result of a chance
mouse-click. I love those moments of sudden clarity and have the
deepest of respect for the people whose assiduous hard work makes
such apparently effortless serendipity possible.
Most of all I owe the usual debt of gratitude for patience,
encouragement, and occasional therapeutic browbeating, that is my
wholly undeserved reward for having lucked into the life-partnership
that keeps me from the distractions which would otherwise only
serve to delay delivery by an even worse fraction of the calendar.
Thank you, Helen, for everything.
Map
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 Prologue

Aegyptus, February AD
187
‘Isn’t that just typical of the blasted cavalry. Give them one simple job
to do and you can be sure that they’ll find a way to gallop off into the
landscape and not be seen all day. Although what they could have
found to chase around this barren landscape, I can only imagine.
What do you think, First Spear? Is it the usual wild goose chase, or
might they have found something to drink all the way out here?’
The senior centurion marching beside Prefect Servius’s horse
barked a terse laugh. Ten years older than his commander, and
close to the end of an illustrious career, his curly black hair was
greying above a nut-brown face, his skin lined and seamed by both
age and the elements. He reflexively turned to look back down his
cohort’s line of march before answering, nodding to himself in
satisfaction that his centuries were still in a tight formation, despite
the arid, stony terrain across which they were advancing. The
soldiers were silent, other than for the rattle and scrape of their
equipment, and the occasional curse as a hobnailed boot slipped on
a loose pebble, their eyes fixed alternately on the men in front of
them and the stark, treeless line of the horizon. Their discipline on
the march was something he had inculcated into them over several
years of training across thousands of square miles of desert, land
empty other than for the trading caravans working the road from their
base at Koptos to Rome’s southernmost trading port, Berenike,
hardening them for the desert’s harsh conditions. Toiling across a
limestone plain, under a sun which, if not anywhere close to
summer’s full heat, was still warm enough to make them grateful that
they had not yet been ordered to don their helmets, they looked
every bit as capable as he expected, trained and drilled to the height
of efficiency and obedience.
‘Our mounted brethren, Prefect? I doubt that lot could find
anything so useful if they were led to it by Mithras himself. But I don’t
think we’ll miss their presence all that much. If their scouting report
was accurate, then we should come within sight of the Blemmyes
village when we cross that next rise. And we’ll hardly need a few
dozen horse thieves to help us triumph against such a ragged
opposition. We are going to attack?’
Servius nodded decisively, replying in the spoken Greek that was
the army of Aegyptus’s main language, no longer requiring any
conscious thought after two years of constant use.
‘Of course, I have to make an example of them, something I can
point out to their king wouldn’t have been necessary if he’d kept a
better grip on his subjects this side of the great river. So yes, once
we’re within four hundred paces we deploy into line and then go
through them without any pause, other than for the customary
challenge and response to get our men’s blood up.’
His first spear nodded agreement.
‘The sooner we get this done, show these thieving bastards what
happens when Rome gets tired of their constant robbery, and then
make our way back to civilisation, the happier I’ll be.’
The prefect grinned at him.
‘Thinking about your daughter, are you, Khaba?’
The older man grimaced.
‘Thinking about her mother, more like, and the amount of money
she seems determined to spend celebrating the girl’s betrothal. It’s
not like I haven’t already provided a decent dowry, but all I hear is
silk dresses and spiced cakes whenever I see them.’
Servius laughed.
‘At least there’s no shortage of either, or of merchants willing to
give a man of your standing a healthy discount. And if you couldn’t
take a joke, perhaps you shouldn’t have had the child?’
His subordinate nodded, his face creasing in an apparently
mournful look of ruefulness.
 ‘Something I am reminded of by her mother every time I question
each new expense. Never before have I agreed quite so strongly
with the rules against marrying before retirement from the service.’
‘Quite so, Centurion! The wisdom of our elders and betters, eh?’
The two men shared a smile, the easy familiarity between them the
result of the two years of hardships involved in drilling the cohort as
close to perfection as could be achieved with native auxiliaries. The
senior officer had initially faced a bigger challenge than his men,
daunted by the loneliness of command in a distant outpost, and that
he had adapted to become an efficient and respected commander
was due in no small part to his subordinate’s patient and tactful
guidance. ‘If there’s one thing that my own domestic life has shown
me, it’s that being a married man and being a soldier are somewhat
incompatible. All I hear whenever I reach for my helmet is “how long
will you be away this time?”’
The centurion nodded knowingly, warming to a familiar theme.
‘That, or “when will you be back this time?”, as if I had the choice.
She seems determined to assume that I prefer the company of five
hundred unwashed men, and the joys of eating cold food and shitting
behind rocks to the comforts of my home. And of course she’s
convinced that I have a woman out here somewhere, when the most
attractive creatures I ever see on patrol are the donkeys carrying the
water. With no disrespect to your horse, Prefect.’
They shared a moment of amusement before Servius spoke
again.
‘At least this ought to be simple enough. We flatten the Blemmyes
village, kill anyone that stands against us, enslave the rest, burn
whatever can’t be carried and head for home. Leaving a clear and
unmistakable message for every member of their tribe.’
‘Steal from Rome, and Rome will make you pay the price of
admission to the game?’
‘Exactly, First Spear. Ah, there they are.’
Cresting the shallow ridge in the desert’s seemingly unending,
gently undulating terrain, they had come into sight of a small desert
settlement. Not the sprawl of buildings that surrounded the wells
further to the south and east where most of the Blemmyes people
lived, but a mean cluster of huts and tents that would provide shelter
for no more than a hundred people at the most.
‘I’ll deploy the cohort into line, if I may, Prefect?’
Leaving his subordinate to what he did best, the swift and efficient
transmission and enforcement of orders, Servius dismounted and
hammered a notched iron stake into a crack in the rock, tethering his
horse to it before pulling on his crested helmet over a clean, and
momentarily sweat free, linen arming cap. Taking a swift drink of
tepid water from his bottle, he turned to find the cohort completing its
deployment from column to line, and walked across to join his
subordinate in front of the soldiers, calling out an order that was
more for show than any need to tell such an experienced centurion
what to do.
‘Get that line dressed, First Spear! Let’s not show these animals
any sign that they might have the faintest chance of beating a cohort
of Roman troops in a straight fight!’
The prefect watched with satisfaction as the older man saluted
crisply and stalked away down the cohort’s line, bellowing orders
and striking out with his vine stick at those of his soldiers who were
slow to respond. His auxiliaries were arrayed in an extended battle
line, two men deep and two hundred long, waiting with the patience
of men habituated to standing in formation, seemingly untroubled by
the ragged band of desert warriors who had emerged from their
dwellings to face them. His task completed, the first spear strode
back down the line to rejoin his prefect, his dark, sun-blasted skin
beaded with sweat from his exertions.
‘The cohort is ready for battle, Prefect!’
Servius nodded gravely.
‘Very well, First Spear. Since the enemy haven’t just fled at the
sight of so many soldiers, I suggest we get this unpleasantness over
and done with. The sooner we have the cohort back in Koptos doing
what they’re paid for, rather than chasing around the desert after this
bandit scum, the better!’
He walked forward to stand before his men, turning his back on
the desert tribesmen waiting for them two hundred paces away, up a
slight slope that led to the settlement his cavalry scouts had
discovered the previous day.
‘Men of the First Macedonica Equitata!’
The soldiers tensed, knowing that his address was the final
preparation for battle, and Servius looked across their line, seeing
fear, eagerness, bloodlust and even boredom on their faces, as his
men readied themselves to fight.
‘These desert dwellers before you have pushed their luck with
Rome one time too many!’
Word had reached the fortress at Koptos two days before, borne
by a merchant who had been by turns irate and disconsolate at the
size of his loss. His caravan, over one hundred beasts laden with an
entire ship’s cargo of valuable trade goods, had been stripped clean
at sword point only two days into its journey up the long road north
from the port town of Berenike. Trade goods that had been shipped
a thousand miles across the Erythraean Sea, carried by captains
willing to brave the treacherous tides, turbulent waves and rock-
studded waters that made any voyage to the kingdoms of the distant
east an act of faith, had been stolen with what Servius considered
breathtaking daring, given how far the Blemmyes had penetrated
into imperial territory to carry out their raid. Not only that, but the
threat of violence used to cow the caravan’s guards had been
shockingly credible, scores of armed bandits springing a well-
planned ambush that had totally overwhelmed the twenty hired
swordsmen who had been employed to fend off any attempt at
robbery. Faced with such a change in the desert-dwellers’ customary
opportunistic banditry, the prefect had known that he had no option
but to make an example of the band in question, and had marched at
dawn the next day in cohort strength, using his cavalrymen to scout
ahead and follow the robbers’ tracks to their village.
‘These criminals before us have stripped an entire shipment clean
at the point of their spears, hoping to sell their gains to the highest
bidder! They have stolen those goods, not just from their rightful
owner, but from Rome too!’
He paused for a moment to allow time for his men to think on that.
A crime against trade was a crime against the empire, denying the
imperial treasury the taxes that would result both from their import
and re-export across the sea to Rome itself. And there was one last
reason for them to want these desert bandits dealt with just as much
as he did, a sentiment he weighed carefully before putting it before
them.
‘And consider this, men of the First Macedonica! As praefectus
praesidiorum et montis berenicidis, my responsibility is to safeguard
both the port, and the quarries to our east, and the roads that lead
north from them across this desert! I can assure you that if you and I
fail to provide these vital imperial assets with the protection we are
paid for, our place here will be re-garrisoned with legion troops, and
we will be marched away to guard dusty road forts in the middle of
Aegyptus. We will be stationed so far from civilisation that we will
never again see those who have come to depend on us, not unless
they choose to accompany us to whichever desolate outpost we are
sent to!’
And that, he knew, would be the most convincing reason for them
to show the bandits no mercy. The prospect of losing the familiarity
and comfort of their fort, in a town filled with the entertainments and
diversions traditionally enjoyed both by the men of the caravans on
their way north and back again and, in their absence, his own men,
would horrify them.
‘But that will never happen, men of the First! We are going to rip
through these poor, deluded fools, who believe that they can defy the
might of Rome and make them rue the day they decided to try!
Those that we kill will be left here as a feast for the vultures! Those
we capture will be sold into slavery, to work as labour in the quarries!
And the profits from their sale will be divided up between those of us
that survive this battle!’
His men cheered their approval of that last roared promise, and
his first spear bellowed the order for them to start making some
noise, a rhythmic rapping of their spear shafts against the wooden
boards of their shields. The sound would, so the military manuals
said, calm the nervous, and give strength to men whose legs were
trembling, but Servius had long since decided that the intention was
mainly to give them something to do, to distract them from
contemplating the horror that awaited the first battle any of them
would ever have fought in. He drew breath, then shouted the
challenge that was routinely practised on the parade ground prior to
mock battles, so that every man present would know what was
expected of him.
‘Are you ready for war?’
The reply was almost instant, his soldiers keen to get the ordeal
over and done with, and see who would live and who, against the
odds that were stacked in their favour, would die.
‘Ready!’
‘Are you ready for war?’
The second time, less of a question and more of an imperative.
‘Ready!’
‘ARE YOU READY FOR WAR?’
And one last time, a full-throated challenge to his soldiers’
manhood, their pride and their right to inhabit their privileged world –
but as he shouted the words at them, he saw facial expressions in
the cohort’s front rank change in the time it took him to roar out the
words. Eyes which had been fixed on him, in accordance with orders
drilled into them on hundreds of occasions, were suddenly looking
past him, up the slope to the place where their enemy waited. As
Servius turned to follow their shocked stares, a horn sounded from
behind him, a long mournful note whose implications sent a shiver
up his spine. On the ridge behind the waiting Blemmyes men were
moving into position, hundreds strong, each of them holding a bow
and a sheaf of arrows, while at either end of their formation
horsemen were walking their mounts into position. Some among
them were holding up objects on the points of their spears, and after
a moment staring up at them in perplexity, Servius realised, with a
sickening shock, that they were severed heads, more than one still
carrying the gilded helmet of a Roman cavalryman. Shaking off the
momentary paralysis that had gripped him, shock at the speed with
which the situation had catastrophically changed for the worse, and
realising his own personal danger, he turned back to his men and
started walking briskly across the twenty-pace gap to the line,
fighting his instinct to run for the illusory safety of their ranks and in
doing so start a panic that would see them all dead. The first spear
pulled a soldier aside to make a gap for him to slip through, then
pushed the man back into place, stepping back alongside his
superior and shouting loudly enough to be heard along the entire
length of the cohort’s formation.
‘Get your bloody shields up! Shields!’
The first spear’s bellowed order broke the spell that seemed to
have gripped the auxiliaries with the appearance of the new threat,
his men raising their shields as ordered.
‘This is a death trap, Prefect! We need to back away, if they’ll let
us, and then speed march for the nearest water fort as fast as we
can!’
‘But this is our ground …’
Knowing even as he said it, and without needing the negation in
the other man’s eyes, that he was, at least temporarily, utterly wrong.
The first spear pointed at the forces mustering on the slope above
them, the dull weight of certainty in his voice.
‘No, Prefect, this is their ground now. That many archers, and
cavalry, the only way we get out of this trap is if they let us re—’
The horn’s mournful note sounded again, and, with a hiss of arrow
fletching carving the air, the archers loosed their arrows. The
centurion dragged Servius into the cover of the rear rank’s shields,
shouting at his men to take cover as the deadly iron sleet plunged
down onto the Roman line. Curses, imprecations, exhortations to
stand fast and shouts of agony and terror erupted along the quailing
cohort’s length, arrows punching into shields and flitting through the
gaps between them to deal indiscriminate death among the
auxiliaries. A soldier reeled from his place in the rear rank with an
arrow’s shaft protruding from his neck, managing half a dozen
disjointed steps before collapsing lifelessly at Servius’s feet, while all
along the line his men were falling, mostly writhing in pain at the
shock of their wounds as another volley hissed down to repeat the
carnage inflicted by the first. The first spear pushed the dead man’s
shield at his superior, flinching as a pair of arrows hammered into the
board that he had raised over his own head, lethally pointed iron
heads protruding a clear six inches through the layered wooden
boards.
‘You have to get away, Prefect!’
Servius shook his head in prompt negation of any such idea.
‘I won’t run!’
‘They’re five times our number and more! The only choice we have
is being slaughtered by the archers if we stand or ridden down by the
cavalry if we run! But one man can still escape!’ He pointed to the
prefect’s horse, tethered fifty paces back from the embattled
Romans, the beast shying at the battle’s sudden cacophony but held
in place by the iron stake Servius had hammered into the rock only
moments before. ‘Go! Take the only chance we’ve got and get word
out as to what happened here! You of all people know what all this
must mean!’
The prefect nodded reluctantly, knowing that once on the horse he
would be uncatchable by the enemy cavalry, almost certainly already
part-blown by their exertions in the desert’s harsh environment.
‘Surely the cohort will break, if they see me run for it?’
Khaba shook his head grimly.
‘Not if I lead them forward at the same time.’ He shook his head
tiredly. ‘This is a knife in Rome’s back. You have to get word of this
treachery out to Alexandria.’
The prefect nodded, his mouth a tight slash in his pale face.
‘Very well.’
‘And if you make it, see that my woman and the child are looked
after?’
‘I will. And I’ll dedicate an altar to you.’
The first spear smiled weakly, flinching as another volley
hammered at the cohort’s shields, and yet more of their soldiers fell
under the deadly hail. The volume of shouts and screams was
already reduced, most of the soldiers focused simply on staying in
the cover of their shields, while those who had failed to do so, and
paid the price, were for the most part dead, each successive volley
reaping more of the men whose wounds had left them helpless on
the bare ground. He pointed at the horse.
 ‘I always wondered what a man had to do to get himself
immortalised in stone! I’d have been happy never to have found out
though. Now go!’
He turned to face the enemy, roaring a command over the
confusion and terror.
‘With me, First Cohort! Advance!’
Along the line the remaining centurions and watch officers began
echoing his orders, pushing their men forward in what Servius
guessed they would instinctively know was a doomed attempt to
counter-attack. He watched for a moment as the men of his
command followed their example, shaking his head as several
wounded soldiers somehow managed to follow their comrades
forward up the slope, limping, staggering and in one case literally
crawling in their wake. Turning away with a prayer to Mercury for
divine speed, he sprinted for the horse, straining every sinew against
the weight of his armour and weapons, mentally rehearsing the three
swift actions that would see him escape: unhook its reins from the
iron tether, leap astride the beast, and put his boots into its flanks
once he had it facing away from the battle. Halfway across the gap
between his doomed cohort and the animal, running so fast that he
felt as if he were floating over the limestone’s hard surface,
perpetually on the edge of falling, such was his breakneck pace, and
at the very instant he began to believe that he would make it to the
animal unnoticed in the battle’s chaos, an arrow flicked past him a
pace to his right. The second, loosed after him an instant later, did
not miss. The shaft pierced his thigh with such force that the iron
head protruded a hand span above the knee, sending him sprawling
across the rock hard enough that he bit through his lip with the
impact. Rolling onto his back, the instinct to survive still strong,
despite the shocking pain making the wounded leg all but useless,
he stared for a moment at what was happening on the slope beneath
the village. From the ridge’s vantage point, the enemy archers were
pouring their arrows into the advancing auxiliaries with sufficient
venom to put their shafts straight through the thin wooden layers of
their shields at such close range, aiming high to put their spiked
arrowheads into the faces of the men behind such flimsy protection.
 Rolling onto his knees, gasping as the arrow’s shaft scraped
across the rock, Servius managed to get to his knees and drew his
sword, putting one hand on his unwounded thigh and the weapon’s
point against the rock, pushing himself upright. Tottering on the
spatha’s wobbling support, he snarled at the pain before starting a
slow, painful limp towards the waiting horse, dragging the useless
limb behind him as he lurched, one slow pace at a time across the
sandy ground. Without any apparent transition other than a brief
sensation of being struck hard in the back, he found himself
struggling to work out why the world was suddenly at right angles,
sky to the left, ground to the right. An overwhelming sense that none
of it really mattered had settled on him, the sensation’s crushing
weight like the reassurance he had enjoyed from being placed under
heavy blankets as a small child, seeming to pin him where he had
apparently fallen. There was bare rock under his helmet, grating on
the finely engraved metal, and he wondered briefly how he was
going to get the scratches polished out before abandoning the
thought as irrelevant, as he realised what had bludgeoned his body
into immobility. Something was inside him, its intrusion beyond
simple pain, and he put a hand to his chest to feel the first inch of an
arrow point protruding through the armour, the hole slick with his
blood.
‘I’m … dying.’
The realisation was comforting, in a way. The indignity and
distress he was feeling, through the numbing, enervating shock of
having an arrow pierce his body from back to front, would soon be
over. The loss of his command, still visible on the village’s slope but
now reduced to little more than a hundred embattled men, their drive
up the slope halted as they clustered together in a doomed attempt
to survive the continual barrage of arrows that was pecking steadily
away at their numbers, was no longer a personal disaster, but simply
something that happened when men went to war. Servius would be
with his ancestors soon enough and, he realised, the only thing he
had left to worry about was that his death wound was in his back. He
watched, detached from the events by more than distance, as the
remnant of his cohort gathered themselves for one last, magnificent,
shambling attempt to attack, their pitiful advance failing in the space
of a dozen paces as the archers reaped them without pity and felled
every last one.
The Blemmyes came down the slope to start picking over the dead
and wounded for the contents of their purses and the bounty of their
equipment, a wealth of iron armour to men used to fighting without
any such protection, prizes to be displayed, he mused, for centuries
to come. Or perhaps to be discovered and punished with death,
when the legions came to take Rome’s revenge for their theft. A pair
of running men passed him, both seeking to take the magnificent
prize waiting for them, the horse still tethered to the rock behind him.
After what sounded like a brief scuffle, one of them came back to
stand over him, muttering something vicious and pulling the dagger
from his belt. He knelt on one knee, looking the dying Roman up and
down for a moment and nodding, perhaps calculating that the wealth
to be had from his gleaming bronze breastplate and heavily
decorated equipment would, perhaps, compensate for the loss of the
horse. He put the weapon’s point to the dying man’s throat, ready to
deliver the mercy stroke that would finally end the prefect’s pain, and
Servius smiled faintly, readying himself to die.
A fresh voice barked, an unmistakable command, harsh and pre-
emptory, and the cold sensation of the knife blade against his skin
withdrew, the Arab standing and looking with venom at several
heavily armed men escorting someone towards him. Realising who it
was he was about to defy, presumably at risk to his life, he fell to one
knee, then withdrew hurriedly at the bark of another terse command.
The bodyguards halted, their ranks opening to allow their charge to
approach. Dressed in magnificently ornamented battle armour,
intricately chased with silver and decorated with gems, the enemy
leader knelt to look into his eyes.
‘You are dying, Roman.’ The words were Greek, heavily accented
but recognisable, the voice soft and yet shot through with iron. ‘A
wound such as that which my men have inflicted upon you is
invariably fatal, although it might be hours before the shock and loss
of blood take you to your ancestors. You will lose your ability to think
soon enough, but you might hover here, caught between life and
death, for as long as a day, as your life leaks away from the holes we
have put in your body.’ The eyes seemed to bore into him, above the
veil of chain mail that covered the speaker’s nose and mouth,
covering skin so dark as to be almost black. ‘I can hasten your
journey across the river to meet those that went before you, if you
assist me with the answer to a simple question. Will you do that,
Roman?’
‘What … question?’
The eyes narrowed in a smile that to Servius’s fading
consciousness looked almost affectionate.
‘What more forces does Rome have in the field in the land of my
allies, the Blemmyes? Just answer me that, and I will cut you free
from this unhappy end myself. And I will put the blade in your throat,
a death wound with honour. No man wishes to meet his grandfather
bearing only the marks of having been shot in the back as he ran
from battle, does he?’
The soft voice hardening, the eyes staring down at him without
compassion, without any emotion other than the need to have the
question answered.
‘You … swear … it?’
A nod.
‘I swear it on the life of my son. I swear it to Amun, the Lord of the
Thrones, and to Nut, the sky goddess, mother of Osiris, Isis, Set,
Nephthys and Horus, that I will give you the mercy stroke, here and
now, if you answer this one simple question honestly. And this is not
a vow any ruler would make without the most serious intent.’
‘You … are … a … king?’
The brown eyes stared down at him dispassionately, unblinking.
‘No questions. Only answers.’
Servius thought for a moment, weighing the twin evils of betraying
his oath to serve the emperor, no matter how small the treachery,
with the need for some vestige of honour in his death.
‘No … other … forces.’
‘Then the fortress at Koptos is empty, and the port of Berenike is
undefended.’ The eyes stared down at him for a moment, assessing
the truth in his eyes. ‘Your part in this is done. Go to your ancestors.’
 The blade under his chin moved swiftly, tugging at his windpipe,
and with a hot rush of blood onto the rock, Servius felt the last of his
consciousness depart, his killer’s eyes the last thing he would ever
see as life left his failing body. The armoured figure stood.
‘Prepare your men to march, General Tantamani. There is a rich
prize to be taken, and I want our appearance at the gates of the port
to be unheralded. Leave our enemies to pick these poor fools clean,
they have served their purpose and can only delay us if we demand
they join us in this conquest. Not to mention the evil that they would
inflict on the innocent womanhood of the city, where I know I can
trust our own soldiery to act with decency. Can I not?’
The man to whom the question was addressed nodded, meeting
his leader’s eyes in the manner expected when questions of life and
death were put.
‘Very well. As we planned it, take our cavalry to the east; there is
water to be had on the main trade road. Allow your horses to drink,
then turn them to the south and east, following the road until you
have Berenike in sight, but remain out of view. Allow any passing
caravan to go unmolested. The last thing we want is for an alarm to
be raised before our arrival, and any ships in the harbour to escape.
We will only declare our presence at the last possible moment, when
it will be too late to retrieve their sailors and oarsmen from the
taverns. I will follow with the infantry and archers at the best
sustainable pace, and once we catch up with you, we will march into
the port and explain the facts of conquest to our new subjects. Rome
has held this ground since the days of my ancestor Amanirenas, two
hundred years ago, and has on occasion even bound us to treaties
signed at that time, that have required our horsemen and archers to
fight alongside them. But now that is all just history.’ A hand swept
through the air to dismiss such irrelevance. ‘The time has come for
these invaders to discover that when the dwellers of the lands further
down the great river named our kingdom Ta-Sety, “the Land of the
Bow” in their ancient language, they did so not from a sense of
respect, or kinship, but from fear!’
The same hand pointed to the northern horizon.
 ‘Rome’s rule here is ended, and I dream of a day when our
dominion stretches from the pyramids of Meroë to those of distant
Memphis. I will bequeath my son the great river’s entire length, and
make him the ruler of a dominion that stretches as far north as under
the rule of my ancestor Taharqa, to the distant sea itself. I will drive
the Romans back into that sea and declare myself ruler of the Black
Lands that are watered by the great river. Their rich, dark soil will no
longer be Rome’s to pillage, to feed a city of idlers, but ours to
cherish as our true homeland once again! Cavalry, ride!’
 1

Mediterranean Sea, March AD

187
‘The thing you must remember about my homeland, gentlemen –
and this above all other facts – is this.’ The speaker paused
portentously, looking around himself to be sure that all the men
around him were listening. ‘Aegyptus is not like any other province in
the empire.’
The imperial secretary had been marched aboard the praetorian
flagship Victoria by a party of praetorians shortly before the tide had
turned, with the sacrifices already made and declared favourable,
and the crew in the final stages of casting off from her mooring.
Olive-skinned and with the dark eyes common among his
countrymen, finely boned and with a faintly avian cast of features, he
nevertheless wore his status as an official in the imperial court with a
somewhat bumptious confidence. Having swiftly introduced himself
to the nonplussed members of the party which had preceded him
aboard the warship some hours before, the secretary had set about
their education with breezy gusto, evidently believing that he was
both expected and entitled to do so whether his insights were
desired or not. Now, with the praetorian fleet’s flagship an hour out
from Ostia, making good speed to the south-east under sail with its
tiered banks of oars inboard, and with its rowers relaxing on their
benches in the morning sunlight, he had embarked upon an
explanation of what it was that made the emperor’s own province, on
the far side of the sea dominated by their navy, so unique. He looked
around his small and somewhat bemused audience with the self-
satisfied look of a learned man in the presence of the less
educationally privileged.
 ‘Not for no reason was it that the first emperor, whose name was
Augustus, declared the province to be his own. He decreed that it
was to be ruled by a man of the equestrian class, and not by a
senator, for it was too precious a territory to risk losing to the control
of a potential usurper. It is the empire’s breadbasket, no less, and
were it to be lost then—’
‘Rome would starve. We know.’
The imperial functionary looked at the party’s leader, a tall, thin
man wearing a tunic edged with the thin purple stripe of the
equestrian order. His grey eyes were locked on the secretary in a flat
stare that might have been described as pitying, were his features
not set rather more kindly.
‘These were only my opening remarks, Tribune Scaurus.’
‘You know my name, from which I am to presume that you have
been briefed as to who we all are?’
The secretary nodded.
‘You are Gaius Rutilius Scaurus, a tribune of the equestrian class.
You have an infamous reputation for having played no small part in
the fall of the last praetorian prefect, and for having helped the
current chamberlain to be promoted into his position.’
The tribune nodded his head in agreement.
‘That much is true, more or less. Not that your master recognises
my part in his elevation to ultimate power with any fondness.’
‘Indeed not. It is the talk of the palace secretariat that our master
Cleander is somewhat ambivalent with regard to your eventual fate.
He places you into situations where your death seems inevitable,
with the added benefit that your unlikely survival can only be
achieved by the defeat of Rome’s adversaries. And yet, despite your
having been commanded to challenge the odds on three occasions,
here you are, sailing on another imperial mission from which there
ought to be no return.’
Scaurus shrugged.
‘And perhaps this time your master will achieve the result he so
clearly—’
He frowned as the official raised a hand in correction.
 ‘With all due respect, Tribune, I find it best to be clear about
matters such as that you refer to. And so for clarity, I am forced to
point out that Chamberlain Cleander is not my master. I have no
master, as such. I am a man raised in the Greek tradition, in the
great city of Alexandria which, as every man knows, is the world’s
centre of learning. I am a philosoph, literally, a—’
‘Lover of wisdom. With Socrates, Aristotle and Plato as your
guiding lights.’
The Aegyptian inclined his head in agreement, apparently failing to
recognise Scaurus’s gently sarcastic tone.
‘Indeed. I am a man of the intellectual tradition, a citizen of the
world of ideas and knowledge just as much as I am a man of
Aegyptus. And I have no master.’
The tribune smiled tolerantly.
‘Your point is taken, although, were I in a disputative frame of
mind, I might point out that Chamberlain Cleander is every man’s
master with the exception of just one. Shall we compromise as to his
part in your life, and refer to him as the man who orders your every
waking moment with even his slightest whims?’
The secretary nodded slowly.
‘In that much I am forced to agree, Tribune Scaurus. In truth, the
chamberlain might as well be my master, even if he lacks the formal
title.’
‘And your name is?’
‘Ptolemy. My mother named me for the great man who rescued my
country from the disaster of the wars that followed the death of his
friend Alexander.’ He drew himself up to his full height, still half a
head shorter than the shortest man in the party. ‘She told me that I
have it in me to be every bit as great as the king himself.’
‘Every man does, if he knows how to access the best in himself.’
Scaurus smiled, ignoring the sounds of stifled mirth from behind him
and putting out a hand. ‘Well met, Ptolemy of Alexandria. And now, if
you have been briefed as to who we all are, perhaps you could share
that briefing with us?’
Ptolemy nodded happily.
 ‘It would be my pleasure to share that knowledge.’ He studied the
men standing behind the equestrian, pointing to a man in his mid-
twenties wearing a tunic bearing the same thin purple stripe as
Scaurus’s. ‘You, Centurion, are Marcus Valerius Aquila, adopted son
of a murdered senator, and you go by the assumed name of Marcus
Tribulus Corvus. I know this by the two swords you wear, one of
them given to you after the death of your birth father, a legatus who
died in Britannia. You are of special interest to the chamberlain.’
Marcus regarded him for a moment before replying. Lean and yet
graced with a soldier’s muscle, his body hard and wiry, his hawk-like
face was marked by scars on the bridge of his nose, and under his
gaze the secretary visibly shrank slightly into himself.
‘Of special interest? Is that a way of saying that he has a special
interest in my death?’
‘No, Centurion Aquila.’ The secretary stared back at him for a
moment. ‘Forgive me, sir. Opportunities to converse with a living
legend are not granted to a man many times in this life, so I may
seem a little awed.’
‘A little awed?’ A man in full centurion’s equipment leaning on the
ship’s rail spat over the side, taking a lungful of the salt-edged air
before speaking again, with a hard smile that was as much menace
as it was amusement. ‘What you seem, friend, is cock-struck.’ He
switched to speaking Greek with the ease of a man long accustomed
to the language, although his idiom was the clipped, hard tones of a
soldier. ‘Since you say that you’re as much a Greek as Aegyptian,
are you perhaps one of those Greeks we’ve all met? A man with a
taste for men? Or do your tastes incline instead to young boys? Or
ducks, perhaps?’
Ptolemy shook his head, clearly intent on not taking offence.
‘No, Centurion Cotta. And were it not for your friend, it would be
you I would be regarding with a degree of reverence. Not many men,
after all, have had both the nerve and the gods’ given blessing to kill
an emperor.’
Cotta shook his head in disbelief.
‘That again? He wasn’t a fucking emperor, he was an idiot general
who made the mistake of allowing his men to put a purple cloak
around his shoulders and prance up and down shouting “rich soldier”
at him, until he genuinely believed that he was the right person to
replace his master. Who was, unfortunately for him at least, not
actually dead. I was ordered to take Cassius’s head off his shoulders
by my legatus, to spare him the indignity of the public punishment
that would have preceded his death, had he caused the expense
and loss of life of a civil war. All I did was what I was legally ordered
to do, by a man invested with the authority to issue that order. You
might as well blame the knife I used!’
Ptolemy smiled knowingly.
‘I read the official report from the imperial agent who gave you the
order to deal with Legatus Augusti Cassius. You killed half a dozen
men—’
‘Five men, and one would-be god.’
The secretary ignored Cotta’s interruption with the grace of a man
well used to being verbally harassed by men less fortunate than
himself.
‘After which you carried Legatus Augusti Cassius’s head back to
your own legion’s lines in a bag, walking brazenly through his men’s
guard posts without anyone realising what it was you had done. You
are a fascinating man, Centurion.’
Cotta snorted, tipping his head at Marcus.
‘Go back to kissing that young idiot’s arse, before I tire of your
attentions and put you over the side.’
The secretary bowed.
‘As you wish, Centurion. It is a long voyage, and given time, I have
no doubt that you will soften sufficiently to tell me your story. And
perhaps your friend’s taciturn companions will be more forthcoming
in the meantime. The officer next to you, for example.’
The man leaning on the rail next to Cotta shot a sideways glance
at Ptolemy before going back to contemplating the passing sea.
‘Avidus? I doubt it. He’s a man of few words, unless there’s a ditch
to be dug or a siege engine needs building, and then you can’t shut
the bastard up.’
‘Indeed, Centurion Avidus who, I believe, has what’s left of his
century with him. A century which Tribune Scaurus “borrowed” from
the Third Augustan Legion a few years ago and has apparently
conveniently forgotten to return. The Third’s legatus has written in
complaint to Rome more than once, but it seems that the
chamberlain is reluctant to break up a winning team. It was also
fortuitous that the centurion and his men were left behind in Rome
when you marched to deal with the bandit Maternus, since it meant
that they, unlike most of your command which is still on its way back
from Gaul, were available to join you in your mission to Aegyptus.’
‘For all the good they’ll be. Unless we need a wall putting up, that
is.’
Ptolemy turned to three other men in the group, singling out the
man who had spoken, a tall, muscular figure clad in a white tunic
with the silver studded leather belt of an officer, an intricately
decorated dagger sitting on his right hip, and bowed unexpectedly.
‘Dubnus, prince of the Brigantes. My felicitations to you, Your
Highness.’
Cotta barked out a laugh, genuinely amused.
‘If only Julius were here. He’d have stained his tunic with joy at
that.’
Dubnus, a man in his mid-thirties with more of the warrior about
him than any of the secretary’s implied regality, shook his head in flat
rejection of his new supplicant’s sympathy.
‘That’s Centurion to you, Scribe. The days when I was usurped as
successor to my former tribe’s throne are so distant as to be nothing
better than uncertain memory. And long since avenged.’
Ptolemy bowed again, an obliging expression on his face.
‘Of course, Centurion. I completely understand your desire not to
be reminded of the past.’
Cotta laughed cynically.
‘Which makes a man wonder why you would raise it? In a hurry to
find out the colour of your own guts, are you? Or just eager to swim
with the sharks, perhaps?’
The big Briton ignored the interjection.
‘I have no problem recalling it. No sense of pain or loss, not after
this long. It’s simply that when I walked up to the gates of the Roman
fort and gave my life to Rome, I was reborn. The days when I was
Dubnus, son of Cynbel, rightful ruler of my tribe, are nothing more to
me than a dream. The last time I went back to my tribe’s city it was
as a Roman officer, to make my peace with the man who succeeded
my father and have revenge on the men who killed him.’
Ptolemy leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with evident
fascination.
‘And will you tell me more of this? It would be a valuable addition
to our understanding of your people.’
Dubnus eyed him with evident amusement, reaching out and
tapping the official’s tunicked chest with a thick forefinger.
‘I know what you are, Scribe. I’ve met men like you before, book
learned and as bright as gold buttons. You think you know all there is
to know, and that everything that matters can be hidden in the scrolls
you write, like a code for men like you who can decipher it. You
observe, you note the details and you scribble them down for others
to read. But most of all, you like to watch.’
The secretary nodded agreement, pursing his lips in apparent
ambivalence.
‘What you say is true, more or less. I … we … do believe in the
importance of the written word, to pass the lessons of the past down
through generations, information that might otherwise be lost to the
grandsons of the men who discovered what makes the world the
way it is.’
The Briton leaned back, looking down his nose at the smaller man
in a way that his comrades immediately recognised.
‘Oh, dear gods below, can you not resist the temptation to do your
warrior king impersonation just this once?’
Dubnus waved Cotta’s complaint away.
‘I understand the power of words, freedman. They are part of the
secret to Rome’s empire, words, and roads, and legions, but I
believe that in putting your nose to a scroll for all your waking hours
you miss the essential truth of this life.’ He patted the shaft of the axe
whose heavy iron head rested on the ship’s planking, and which he
had politely but firmly declined to store in the vessel’s hold. ‘This is
the instrument with which I write my destiny. And my stories are
written in the blood of my enemies, and that of the men who stand
alongside me. You should exchange the stylus for a sword and see
whether you too might find a purer calling.’
He grinned down at the scribe, evidently seeking to intimidate the
man, but Marcus was intrigued to see that Ptolemy’s answer was a
simple birdlike nod of his head.
‘I will take you up on that kind offer, Centurion. It would be a matter
of the greatest honour to learn the secrets of the sword from you.’
Dubnus shook his head, drawing breath for some retort, but the
man behind him, fully a head taller even than the massively built
centurion, was faster to react. His barked laugh made the secretary
jump, loud enough to narrow the Briton’s eyes in momentary
discomfort.
‘By the gods, Lugos, if you’re going to bellow in my ear at least do
me the favour—’
‘He have you, Dubnus!’ The long-haired tribesman simply ignored
his complaint, his booming voice effortlessly overriding the Briton’s.
‘You make like big man, he find your heel of …’ He turned to Scaurus
in question. ‘Who is man you tell me of, immortal except for his
heel?’
The tribune smiled up at him with an affection born of years of
shared hardship.
‘Achilles, Lugos. Half-man, half-god.’
‘Hah!’ The giant clapped a hand on Dubnus’s shoulder, the
comradely gesture tipping the Briton’s body to one side momentarily.
‘He find your heel of Achilles. Your pride make you his prisoner. Now
you must teach him sword!’
Dubnus turned his irritation on the scribe.
‘Were you trying to catch me out, you devious little sh—’
‘Not at all, Warrior Prince!’ Ptolemy raised his hands in protest,
eyes wide with conviction. ‘But tell me this, I implore you! Who, if
offered the opportunity to learn from a master of their art, would do
anything other than accept the kind gesture with the utmost alacrity?’
‘I think he means that given you were stupid enough to make the
offer, you—’
‘I know what he means, Cotta!’ Caught between his own
frustration and the danger of appearing churlish under the
secretary’s deluge of praise, Dubnus capitulated, albeit with an
obvious reluctance. ‘Very well, Scribe, tomorrow morning, and every
morning, we will practise with the sword. Let’s see what can be
made of you.’
He turned away, then, caught by a sudden inspiration, returned his
gaze to the freedman.
‘One more thing.’
‘Anything!’
‘My comrades here.’ Dubnus hooked a thumb over his shoulder at
the massive bulk of Lugos looming behind him, and the watchful
figure of the tribune’s servant Arminius at his side. ‘What did your
briefing tell you about them?’
Ptolemy bowed to Lugos, who stiffly returned the gesture with an
expression of genuine interest in whatever the imperial functionary
was about to say.
‘With regard to this man, my briefing was simply this: a barbarian
giant, extremely dangerous. Not to be provoked or trifled with.’
Dubnus shook his head in disbelief.
‘So I can be provoked, but not this monster?’
The subject of his ire shook his head briskly.
‘Far from it, noble Centurion. I was instructed to treat you with the
utmost of respect, but to engage you in discussion at any
opportunity. You are one of us, and therefore open to rational
discussion. The barbarian Lugos, however, I was told to avoid any
discourse with at all costs. Apparently his sort are prone to fits of
rage, presumably as the result of their realisation that they can never
match the grandeur of Rome.’
Lugos looked down at him in silence for a moment, ignoring
Cotta’s attempts to muffle his laughter with the scarf that protected
his neck from the edging of his armour. When he spoke, his voice
was curiously muted, the point he wished to make evidently rooted in
sadness rather than anger.
‘You are right, little man.’ He leaned forward to put his big face so
close to Ptolemy’s that the scribe could see the pale detail in the
long scar that carved a furrow through the flesh of his right cheek.
‘My people do not live in palace of stone. We do not eat from bowl of
silver. We do not even wear coat of iron, like Roman warrior. We are
poor people. But we have …’
He looked at Scaurus, seeking assistance with what he was trying
to express.
‘Dignity?’
The giant nodded, but before he could repeat the word Marcus
spoke into the charged silence, his voice charged with emotion on
his friend’s behalf.
‘And pride. Pride in who you are. And what you were before Rome
turned your lives upside down.’
Ptolemy frowned and opened his mouth to argue, only to be
interrupted by Arminius.
‘A fate avoided by my own people, the Quadi, only at a high price
in our blood. Like every people who have surrendered to Rome and
found themselves assimilated. Conscripted. Taxed.’ The German
stepped forward, looking down at the secretary with an unreadable
expression. ‘You might find us untypical subjects of the empire,
Scribe. We have seen Rome’s rule in Britannia, Gallia, Germania,
Dacia, Syria and half a dozen other provinces. And we have
travelled in the east, as far as Ctesiphon, and looked back at Rome
through the eyes of our enemies. We see what Rome is, and what
she does to the peoples her armies conquer.’
‘I know. I have read of your exploits, Arminius of Germania.’
Ptolemy’s voice was abruptly soft. ‘And I have many questions for
you on the subject of those travels.’ He nodded slowly. ‘And I
understand your point. Rome is a hungry beast, with an appetite for
conquest, regardless of the consequences for others.’
‘No.’ They turned back to Lugos, who had straightened to his full
height and was staring out over the warship’s side at the distant
smudge that was all they could see of the receding coast behind
them. ‘Rome not hungry. Rome got all it ever need. Rome is like a
jealous neighbour, want you land, you wife. Want to enslave you
children and take you gold. And very few people got strength to tell
Rome no.’
He turned away and walked to the ship’s side, leaving them
staring after him.
 ‘I had no idea that a barbarian of such apparent brutality could be
so thoughtful. I must speak more with that man. And perhaps with
you as well, Centurion Qadir?’
The Syrian archer bowed slightly.
‘I cannot imagine what it could be that I could say that would be of
any interest to a man as full of knowledge as you.’
‘And yet I do have questions for you. The secretariat has been
interested in you ever since you came to our attention.’
‘Me?’ Qadir appeared genuinely puzzled. ‘What is there to me that
could attract the interest of your scholars?’
Ptolemy smiled back at him kindly.
‘It is not the scholars among us who are interested in you,
Centurion, but rather the record keepers. When your presence in this
familia was first noted by the men set to watch the tribune and those
who accompany him, the usual searches of the records pertaining to
your province were made. The secretariat is most diligent in such
things, as I’m sure you can imagine. And the mills of imperial record-
keeping do grind slowly, but they also grind very finely. And yet with
regard to yourself there was nothing at all, not until the time you
joined the army as an archer, under what appears to have been a
pseudonym. That is an invented name, used for the purpose of
disgui—’
‘We know this, Scribe. And your point is? I’m sure my colleague
wouldn’t be the first man to join up with a new name.’
Ptolemy nodded earnestly.
‘The secretariat, Centurion Cotta, hates a mystery. Perhaps
Centurion Qadir can illuminate his origins and put their concerns to
rest. Nothing troubles an administrator more than a lack of certainty
as to particular facts, as I am sure you can imagine.’
His matter-of-fact statement, made, apparently, without any intent
to threaten, left the party momentarily nonplussed, a silence which
the single-minded Aegyptian completely failed to recognise as a
reason for concern.
‘Doubtless we can talk more on this subject at some point.’ He
turned to Scaurus with the determined expression of a frustrated
teacher. ‘And now, sir, with your permission, I will resume the briefing
I have been ordered to deliver to you.’
‘Oi, what about us?’
Both men turned to face a pair of soldiers standing at the rail, their
tunics rough compared to the finer cloth worn by the officers, the
fabric much repaired with off-coloured patches taken from other
garments, their belts and daggers utilitarian rather than decorated.
Ptolemy looked at them both blankly.
‘What about you, legionaries? You seem unremarkable, other than
your somewhat surprising status as barbarian legionaries who have
the ability to speak Greek.’
The shorter of the two, a man in his late thirties with a sly,
calculating look, shook his head in disgust at the response.
‘Of course we speak Greek, we learned it in the east. How else
was we supposed to get fed, or get a drink, or a woman? So what
were you told about Sanga and Saratos, eh?’ He opened his hands
wide. ‘Spies, brawlers and fighters, we are, with stories to tell!’
‘Stories like “How I spent all the tribune’s gold in a brothel and told
him it was used bribing secrets out of other men when all I actually
did was get them pissed and listen to their drunken babble”?’ Cotta
raised an amused eyebrow. ‘I can see how the imperial secretariat
would be keen to get that one onto paper for generations to come to
marvel at.’
Ignoring the jibe, the soldier stared at Ptolemy, who shook his
head slowly.
‘No mention was made of either of you, legionary.’
‘I ain’t a legionary, I’m a watch officer!’
His companion tapped him on the shoulder and shook his head.
‘Leave it. Is same as always.’
‘Too bloody right it is.’ Sanga turned away and leaned over the
side, muttering to himself, and Cotta barked another laugh, if a little
more sympathetically. ‘Not every man can be a figure in this fool’s
history of the world. And trust me, Sanga, you’re better off sticking to
the simple life you enjoy so much, calculating time by how long it’ll
be before you have a drink in your hand and a woman pretending to
laugh at your stories while she prays that the contents of your purse
are larger than what’s under your tunic. Because when the time
comes that we all fall foul of some evil bastard, you’ll be able to slide
out from under.’
Ptolemy waited for a moment, listening politely to the soldier’s
aggrieved muttering before turning back to Scaurus.
‘As to that briefing, Tribune, I—’
The tribune raised a hand.
‘Before you continue, tell me, Scribe, just how far is it from Ostia to
Alexandria?’
Ptolemy answered without hesitation.
‘Fifteen hundred miles, more or less.’
‘And how long will the Victoria take to cover that distance?’
‘Given the prevailing winds, I believe that we can expect a
crossing of approximately fourteen days.’
Scaurus nodded.
‘As I thought. So, given that we have two weeks to fill, more or
less, perhaps we might defer the pleasure of receiving your
extensive knowledge of the emperor’s province to some later date?’
Ptolemy inclined his head in solemn acceptance of the point.
‘I will look forward to that opportunity to share my knowledge with
you.’
‘Thank you. Although there is one question that I would appreciate
an answer to, in the meantime.’
‘Name it, sir, and I will answer, if it is within my power to do so.’
‘We have been hurried aboard this vessel and shot like an arrow
from the imperial bow at Aegyptus, with orders to deal with “a minor
problem in the province”. A minor problem that remains utterly
unspecified, with no further briefing having been provided by the
praetorian detachment that escorted us to the docks. Can you
illuminate us as to the nature of whatever it is that requires our very
particular skills?’
The scribe’s face fell.
‘With the deepest apologies, sir, I must admit that I am unable to
provide you with any further detail as to the nature of the task
entrusted to you by the imperial chamberlain. Perhaps you will be
more completely briefed by the prefect commanding the province?’
The Victoria made landfall on the day her tribune had predicted,
much to the pleasure of his crew, who were keenly anticipating the
opportunity to sample the city’s delights, although the prospect of
making harbour was apparently not one that gave their fleet
commander any joy. A taciturn, heavily bearded man, known to
Scaurus’s familia from previous journeys at Cleander’s command, he
stared over the vessel’s side as her navarchus alternated between
barking out a succession of steering and rowing orders and directing
a steady stream of invective at the smaller craft obstructing her path.
The entrance to the city’s eastern harbour was less than a quarter of
a mile distant, the four-hundred-foot-high lighthouse of Pharos
towering over its entrance in its scarcely credible three-tiered
grandeur, the gap through which the flagship would have to pass
crowded with traffic. Scaurus gestured to the vessel’s captain, as he
paced the deck with the look of a man ready to assault anyone that
gave him the slightest excuse.
‘Wishing that was you, Tribune?’
The naval officer shot Scaurus a disbelieving glance.
‘Do I look like a fucking idiot?’
The soldier inclined his head gracefully, conceding the point.
‘Not every man who manages, by good fortune and his own skills,
to be promoted to the height of his competence, is necessarily happy
to leave the performance of his skills to other, lesser men.’
They watched in silence for a moment as the navarchus ordered a
swift change of course, guiding the flagship’s stately progression into
the city’s Great Harbour around a group of small boats whose
occupants seemed determined to seek their deaths under the beak
of her copper-sheathed ram.
‘You think I wish I was the one shouting the orders and cursing the
bum boats?’ The sailor shook his head. ‘I spent ten years being the
man responsible for sailing this unwieldy monstrosity around Our
Sea, forever wondering when I was going to run it onto an uncharted
rock and end my days begging for spare change outside the arena
with the other failures. And now, thanks to you taking the fleet’s last
commander ashore with you and leaving him six feet under the dirt
of wherever it was in Persia that you took him, I command the fleet.
Me, the son of a butcher, who ran away to sea rather than put up
with the stink of offal and the perpetual buzz of flies.’
‘How was it that you kept your temporary command? I had
expected that there would be a queue of suitably qualified gentlemen
for such a prime position.’
The dark-faced seaman raised an eyebrow at Scaurus.
‘How do you think? I was summoned to an interview with the
chamberlain, in which I was informed that the position was mine for
the rest of my time at sea, but only if I was willing to undertake
certain secret operations without asking any awkward questions.’
‘Smuggling?’
The sailor’s expression remained impassive.
‘I have no idea, Tribune. From time to time I receive orders to bring
the fleet here, or a squadron, or sometimes just the Victoria.
Showing the locals the strength of Rome, as my orders put it. After
all, there’s no point having a navy and allowing it to rot at anchor, or
at least that’s the chamberlain’s stated position on the matter. How
else could my navarchus be so familiar with this shoal- and rock-
strewn channel as not to need a pilot?’
‘And while you’re docked, and your oarsmen and marines are
ashore doing their best to plant a crop of little sailors and soldiers in
the local women, the odd unofficial cargo comes aboard?’
‘Sometimes the items in question are small enough to be tucked
under a visiting dignitary’s cloak. Sometimes five hundred men will
labour for a full day to bring them aboard my ships. We once loaded
twenty-one vessels to their full capacity with bags of what I can only
presume was grain.’
‘I see.’
Both men were silent for a moment, Scaurus staring up at the
towering lighthouse on the ship’s right-hand side.
‘You’ve heard the name of Alexander the Great, I presume?’
The naval officer nodded scornfully.
‘I may live for the sea, Tribune, but I’m not a total fool. And yes, I
know that he commissioned this city from bare sand, marking out the
street plan with flour. Which is funny, given the amount of grain that
comes through here to keep Rome from starving.’
 ‘And Ptolemy?’
The big man smiled ruefully.
‘Some Aegyptian or other. There are limits to a sailor’s interest in
the doings of lesser mortals.’
Scaurus returned the smile.
‘Ptolemy was a Macedonian, just like Alexander. And he was the
great man’s closest friend, allegedly the bastard son of Alexander’s
father Philip. They grew up under the teaching of a genius called
Aristotle, and a good deal of that wisdom must have rubbed off on
him, because when his friend died, Ptolemy was the first of his
generals to realise there was no way to keep the empire he’d built in
one piece. He staked out Aegyptus for its wealth and strategic
position, and he took it for his own. He made himself a king, to start
with, the most that could be tolerated from a Greek by the
population, but he was astute enough to rule wisely, better than the
Persians before him, and made this city into a centre of philosophy
and the arts. And in time, through clever association with the local
deities, he made himself and his successors into living gods.’ He
shot a grin at the sailor, who was listening with the expression of a
man being lectured. ‘Which is a good trick. Our emperors have to die
before being admitted to the imperial cult. How much better to attain
godhead while you’re still alive, eh?’
‘It’s a good story. Are you sure you’re not just passing the time with
a history lecture for a dumb oarsman?’
‘Stay with me, there’s a point to my story. Ptolemy was a clever
man, not just a warrior, and his time at the feet of one of the greatest
philosophers that ever lived had gifted him with a lifelong love of the
civilised way of life. He built this city to last, to be a place of
splendour for all time, and one of the challenges he decided to tackle
was this …’ Scaurus waved a hand at the harbour before them. ‘You
know what a difficult bay this would have been to enter, what with the
island of Pharos and the offshore reefs that stud the harbour mouth.
And so he decided to put a light on Pharos, tall enough to be seen
from thirty miles away at night, to guide sailors to safety and mark
out the rock.’
 He gestured to the lighthouse, now less than a quarter mile distant
as the warship stood into the bay at a dignified walking pace under
the steady propulsion of its banked oars.
‘The man who designed that thing for Ptolemy was called
Sostratus, or so the historian Plinius would have us believe. It cost
eight hundred talents of silver to construct, which, when you bear in
mind that the Parthenon of Athens is said to have cost around half
as much, tells you what a dent that must have made in the royal
finances. And when it was complete, or so the story goes, Sostratus
had his own name carved into the building, then covered it with
plaster into which the king’s name was inscribed.’
The sailor nodded approvingly.
‘Clever bastard.’
‘Quite so. He reasoned that by the time the render fell away, both
architect and king would be long dead, meaning there would be
neither an insult, a victim, nor indeed anyone left to be accused.
Rather like the relationship between our emperor and his current
chamberlain.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
Scaurus shrugged, a faint smile touching his lips.
‘I suppose my point is that Cleander is like the architect. While
Commodus takes the plaudits, and lives the life of a magnificent
ruler, the man who is managing the empire for him intends that his
name too will echo down the centuries. At least if he has his way.’
The naval officer turned to look at him.
‘You think these acts of smuggling are part of some plot to put
Cleander on the throne?’
‘Who knows?’ Scaurus smiled again, raising his eyebrows in
question. ‘Perhaps he’s just one of those men for whom no amount
of wealth can ever be enough. But an abundance of riches, or of gifts
bestowed by the gods, or just simple luck, is a strange thing. It tends
to make a man view the world differently. He starts to consider men
not blessed with the same good fortune as lesser beings, to be
disposed of as he sees fit. Who knows what ambitions are harboured
in the chamberlain’s mind? After all, with each dawn he wakes to the
task of bending his ferocious talents to the ceaseless and unforgiving
management of one hundred million subjects, while the emperor
busies himself only with his own pleasure.’
‘If you put it like that, I see your point. But what else am I to do?’
Scaurus nodded.
‘There is little alternative, that’s clear. You must continue to
perform the small favours that the chamberlain requests of you. But
keep a record, my friend, and if at all possible, find out what it is that
you are carrying for him. Who knows, one day that knowledge might
be the difference between being able to defend your actions and a
less happy outcome, if Cleander falls and the man that succeeds him
comes looking for cronies to deal with.’
The warship was rounding the pier that struck out from the
lighthouse’s base, and Scaurus looked across the strip of water that
separated ship from land at the crowd of citizens who had gathered
to watch the powerful vessel’s passing, wondering what they were
thinking as such a powerful symbol of Rome’s imperial might swept
through the harbour’s entrance.
‘We still have a little time before you’re called on to play the fleet
commander for the local officials, so let me tell you another story.
You’ll see my point soon enough.’
The sailor gestured for him to continue.
‘In his early days on the throne Ptolemy needed money. He was
only a king at that time, rather than a god, and a kingdom like this
one needs constant attention if it is to be efficiently milked of the sort
of money that builds four-hundred-foot-high stone lighthouses. And
so, to assist him with that milking, he enlisted, or rather he tolerated,
the services of a man by the name of Cleomenes. Greedy, corrupt
and completely untrustworthy, he was nevertheless an expert at the
art of taxation, of plucking the goose without being pecked, and
under his control the imperial authorities generated all the money
Ptolemy needed. Albeit at a price, which was Cleomenes’s own
enrichment, and his not-so-gradual rise to grandeur. And for a time
the king tolerated his venality, until the time was right for him to
upgrade himself from ruling as a mere mortal and assume the role of
god. At which point he turned on Cleomenes, sided with the men
who accused him of extortion, and had him executed. At his trial, the
king’s former favourite was accused of having accumulated eight
thousand talents, enough to build that lighthouse ten times over,
making him quite possibly the richest man in the world. But all that
wealth was no defence against the wrath of a living god.’
‘You’re telling me that Cleander might go the same way?’
Scaurus looked out over the Great Harbour’s bustling waters.
‘Who can tell? Commodus has ignored the machinery of state for
so long that he might well have forgotten what it is to actually rule.
And he might continue to ignore his duties to the degree that
Cleander can simply slide the empire out from under him and into his
own pocket. But a man in that position needs to tread softly, because
an emperor wakened to the danger of harbouring a usurper tends to
strike hard, and fast. All I’m suggesting is that you keep a record of
the jobs Cleander asks you to perform, ready to detail for the men
who might come to question you when he falls from grace, as I
suspect he surely will. And now, Tribune, you must go and perform
your duty as the fleet’s commander. And we, as ever, must go and
find out just how deep the bucket of dung we’ve been dropped into is
this time around.’
 2

Scaurus’s party went ashore, once the docking formalities had been
dealt with, having spent the previous hour preparing for their
interview with the province’s equestrian prefect. While the officers
had taken turns to lace each other into their scaled armour,
meticulously checking each other’s shining finery for any smudge or
finger mark that might reduce their collective magnificence, Lugos
and Arminius had combed and plaited each other’s hair and
inspected each other’s tunics for any mark that would embarrass
their tribune, while Sanga and Saratos had invested equal care with
their equipment in support of the former’s determination to impress
any ladies they might meet. Walking out from the docks into the city,
they looked about them with various expressions of wonder and
appreciation for the grandeur of the wide streets, the imposing
buildings that rose on either side. Teeming with the city’s population,
the broad thoroughfares had a subtly different aroma to that they had
most recently experienced in Rome, the faint trace of a sweet musk
underlaying the usual smells of any city where hundreds of
thousands of people lived cheek by jowl.
‘You would do well to keep a hand on your purses at all times,
gentlemen.’
Dubnus snorted at Ptolemy’s warning, looking about him at the
throng of people going about their business with the jaundiced
expression of a man well accustomed to the thievery that he
believed to be a way of life in every city.
‘If any of these idlers so much as lays a finger on me, I’ll have his
hand off with this …’ He patted his dagger’s hilt meaningfully, having
been persuaded to leave his axe on the warship for later delivery to
wherever it was that they would end up spending the night. ‘And then
I’ll put it where its owner won’t easily retrieve it. And besides, having
a beast like Lugos along with us does seem to have the effect of
discouraging anyone from getting too close.’
The Aegyptian nodded his agreement with the big Briton’s
sentiments.
‘Our barbarian colleague’s presence does seem to have
something of a deterrent effect on the usual plague of beggars and
street urchins. And then there is the fact that we are all clearly both
armed and capable of using our iron to good effect.’
Cotta smirked at him disbelievingly.
‘I can see the entire street cowering away from you, master
swordsman.’
The Aegyptian raised a haughty eyebrow at him in return, the
man’s innate belief in his own abilities self-evident in the set of his
head. His daily tuition at the hands of Dubnus had, Cotta would have
been the first to admit, resulted in a commitment to mastering the
use of a short infantry sword that had surpassed any expectation.
Exercising twice daily with the weapon provided to him by the
Victoria’s marines from the warship’s inventory, he had become a
familiar figure on the deck in the light of dawn and late in the
evening, practising the lunges, cuts, parries and stabbing blows that
Dubnus had taught him.
‘I may not have had the benefit of your life experience, Centurion,
but I have worked hard to build the familiarity with my blade and, as
is usually the way, my persistence has been rewarded.’ He shooed
away a supplicant with a hard look and a tap of his sword’s hilt in
self-conscious imitation of his tutor’s brusque method of repelling
unwanted attention, putting an even broader smile on Cotta’s face.
‘This weapon already feels like a natural extension of my arm when I
wield it.’
‘This is good progress.’ Ptolemy beamed at Arminius’s straight-
faced praise. ‘If you have come that far after only two weeks of
Dubnus’s teaching, then it is my expectation that you will only need
another nine years and fifty weeks of practice to become the expert
you hope to be.’
 The Aegyptian frowned, unwilling to accept his new comrade’s
opinion.
‘But …’
‘Consider it this way.’ Marcus turned back to smile tolerantly at the
scribe. ‘You spent a good deal of time throughout the voyage
lecturing us all on the history and geography of this province, did you
not?’
‘That, and shamelessly pumping anyone that would tolerate his
constant whining for information.’
Marcus twitched his lips in a smile at Cotta’s comment.
‘And, when you were not enriching your own knowledge at the
expense of your new comrades’ undoubted patience, for which I am
sure you will be keen to make some recognition in liquid form, you
did manage to impart some learning to each of us, did you not?’
‘I did.’
‘And would you now consider any of us to be a master of your
chosen discipline of philosophy?’
Ptolemy shook his head in bafflement.
‘Why, no. You have barely scratched the surface of the myriad
subjects that are avail …’ He saw Cotta grinning at him and fell silent
as the trap into which he had stepped became apparent. ‘Ah.’
‘Indeed. Ah. Your beginnings of skill with the sword are heartening,
like the progress I’m sure you made when first you were set to
learning your letters, but knowing your alphabet is a long way from
being able to read, fully understand and then conduct a learned
discourse on the subject of the thought and works of Aristotle.’
‘I suppose that’s a fair analogy, Centurion. But ten years? I learned
my letters when I was a small child, and every philosopher knows
that the body’s energy is spent growing itself to adulthood, rather
than on the development of the mind. Surely I can master the sword
in less time than that?’
‘Possibly.’ Marcus gestured to the dagger at his waist. ‘But the
sword isn’t all you have to consider, if you wish to become a warrior
like your tutor Dubnus.’
‘It isn’t?’
 The prospect of there being other disciplines to be mastered put a
look of dawning realisation on Ptolemy’s face.
‘Fighting with a dagger at close quarters is a skill all in itself, as
much about the eyes as the blade, learning to fight with your instinct
as much as any learned skills. And then there’s the spear. Putting a
spearhead into a target the size of a man at twenty paces, that takes
practice.’
‘Months of it. Years.’
The Aegyptian looked from Marcus to Dubnus, who had stepped
closer to add his flatly stated opinion.
‘But how …’
Marcus raised a hand to silence him.
‘I do not wish to be unkind. Or no more so than would be your
reaction, were you faced with Dubnus here declaring an intention to
master Euclidean geometry in a week. Be happy that you have made
a solid start to your training, and that you have shown yourself to be
a capable and diligent student. But do not fool yourself into believing
that you could stand alone against anyone who has been handling
blades for more than half their lives.’
Ptolemy made a small bow to both men.
‘I consider this to be a part of my education. And, coming from two
such learned exponents of the art, I can of course only accede to
your counsel.’
‘I think he means that he agrees.’
The Aegyptian turned to Cotta with a bright smile.
‘I’m heartened, Centurion, to discover that just a little of our
learned discourse over the last two weeks has worn off on you.’
The veteran centurion grinned back at him.
‘Likewise, Scribe, that you’ve adopted a little of our sense of
humour.’ He paused significantly. ‘While retaining enough of your
caution to avoid someone taking offence and beating the very shit
out of you.’
‘Shall we, gentlemen?’ Scaurus, if not impatient, was clearly keen
to be moving on. ‘While we stand here debating, I fear I am at risk of
losing a certain German at the hands of an outraged lady’s
bodyguard.’
 He turned to bark an exasperated order at Arminius who, having
drifted away from them with a bored expression on his face, was
ignoring a pair of bemused black-skinned men to engage a beautiful
woman in his version of artful conversation. Clearly both intimidated,
and to some degree intrigued, by the sight of the German and the
pale-skinned giant standing behind him, the lady’s guards were
clearly steeling themselves to intervene, hands on the hilts of their
daggers. The lady herself, having ascertained that there was no
transaction to be entered into, was shaking her head with a friendly
but insistent reluctance to waste any more valuable time. The tribune
interposed himself, bowing to the lady who, impressed by his shining
bronze armour and evident status, simpered in reply, managing to
further excite the German’s ardour before he and Lugos were
ushered firmly away.
‘I’ve told you enough times for it to have sunk in, Arminius, they
expect to be paid! All your manly posturing will ever achieve is to
have their bodyguards’ knives out faster, especially with a seven-
foot-tall beast of a man at your shoulder.’
With his servant complaining bitterly at having his enjoyment so
rudely curtailed, loudly enough to be heard but carefully pitched to
nevertheless be ignored, they walked further into the city, following
Ptolemy’s directions towards the praetorium.
‘What are they queuing for?’
The Aegyptian answered in a bored tone, waving a dismissive
hand at the line of men that stretched away down the street from an
imposing building constructed with blocks of marble.
‘It is the tomb of the great king, Alexander. They queue for a
moment to stare at his embalmed body.’
The queue’s order was being maintained by half a dozen imposing
acolytes in priests’ robes, each man carrying a brass-shod staff with
the look of a useful enough weapon in the event of a brawl. Scaurus
stared at the building with a look of longing, a wistful note in his
voice.
‘That is a thing I would dearly like to see.’
‘I’ve seen it. It was rubbish. Just the dried-out husk of a man with a
crooked nose.’ They turned to look at Cotta, who was looking at the
mausoleum with a bored expression. ‘We all went for a look
eventually, when we were posted here. After all, he was the master
of the world until some crafty Greek bastard had him poisoned.’
‘The rumours that Aristotle and the general Antipater murdered
Alexander are forgivable.’ Ptolemy nodded his respect for Cotta’s
apparent insight. ‘Both men had good reason to wish the master of
the world dead. Although a simpler explanation is surely more likely.
And the tomb is indeed not the experience you might expect,
Tribune. I have seen it more than once and must admit that the body
is most sadly reduced. As for his nose, it is a regrettable and
carefully denied fact that, in placing a diadem on the great man’s
head as a form of homage from one great conqueror to another, the
divine Augustus managed to break it off completely.’ He sighed. ‘The
damage was repaired hurriedly, and without artistry, to support the
narrative that it never happened. You might be better off leaving the
whole thing to imagination.’
Scaurus nodded.
‘Another time, perhaps. For now I must follow my orders and
report to the emperor’s prefect.’
At the next intersection of roads they came upon the bustling vista
of a market, but as Ptolemy went to lead them around the edge of
the throng, Lugos, his stature allowing him to look over the heads of
the crowd, tugged at Scaurus’s sleeve with a look of dismay. He
pointed at something in the market’s heart which only he could see,
shaking his head angrily.
‘Is not right. Women, children, be torture.’
The tribune looked at their guide questioningly, but the Aegyptian
seemed unperturbed.
‘In this place, at this time of the day? It is likely to be a tax collector
of the city at work.’
Scaurus led them through the watching crowd, any protests by the
citizens he pushed aside quickly dispelled by both the magnificence
of his armour and helmet and the threat carried by the men at his
shoulder. On catching sight of the unmissable and angry-looking
giant pressing close in behind the Roman, the look on his face
promising violence to anyone that stood in his master’s path, the
crush of people melted in the face of the familia’s advance. In a wide
circle at the crowd’s centre, what appeared to be a family were
cowering under the cudgels of half a dozen hard-faced men dressed
in drab tunics and heavy boots. Two adult women, one, Scaurus
guessed, the wife of a man who was being held away to one side,
the other old enough to be his mother, and five children of varying
ages, were struggling to keep a large iron basket off the ground
inside their circle, while another thug circled them with a short whip.
Unlikely as the Romans would have thought it, the scene was
playing out under the watching eyes of a tent party of legionaries
with a disgusted-looking centurion standing out in front of them, his
vine stick held in a white-knuckled hand in front of him.
As they watched, the smallest of the children allowed the basket’s
base to touch the cobbles at his feet, prompting an angry shout and
a flick of the whip at his calves that made him stagger, weeping with
the pain. The pinioned man struggled, earning a punch to his gut that
would have doubled him over had he not been held upright. He
gasped for air, croaking a protest at his family’s treatment.
‘The money is on its way! Keep me, but let them go, in the name
of Jehovah!’
Another blow silenced him, expertly placed in his sternum, leaving
him fighting to breathe at all. The gang’s leader stepped forward and
raised his hands to quieten the crowd’s growing buzz of outrage.
‘This man owes the state money! He and his filthy Jewish brood
will stay in our custody until the full sum is paid! And anyone that
doesn’t like that can consider it an example …’ He turned a slow
circle with his truncheon held high for all to see the iron capping
gleaming dully in the sunlight. ‘That, or step forward to complain to
me, if you’re bored with life!’
The crowd simmered with resentment, but as the gang’s leader
had clearly calculated, nobody was brave enough to take him up on
the challenge.
‘What the fuck are they doing, torturing those people?’
Ptolemy looked at Dubnus expressionlessly, clearly familiar with
the scene.
 ‘They are collecting taxes. They call themselves “tax farmers”,
because they reap wealth from the people like a farmer scythes
wheat. That man probably owes the tax farmer whatever has been
assessed as his debt to the state, plus his profit. He will release the
man’s family when he has paid the required amount.’ He looked
dubiously at the victim’s oldest daughter. ‘Or at least he should …’
‘And the amount is assessed by who, exactly?’
The Aegyptian looked at Scaurus with a puzzled expression for a
moment, then nodded with realisation.
‘I had quite forgotten that this is not the way it works elsewhere.
The rest of the empire has its taxes administered by officials,
whereas in Aegyptus, the emperor’s own province, we have what
you see here. It has been decided by the governor, with the approval
of Chamberlain Cleander, that the old system of tax farming is more
appropriate.’ He shot Scaurus a knowing glance. ‘The emperor
guards the privacy of his officials’ doings here like a jealous
husband, and without senatorial oversight, Aegyptus is a very fat
goose indeed, with a lot of feathers to be plucked. And so the
governor awards the contract to levy taxes to the highest bidders,
who must then submit enough income to cover their contracts, but
are allowed to keep the remainder for themselves. And, to answer
your question, the taxes are assessed by the farmers themselves.
Theirs is a great skill, to extract enough money to pay off their
contracts and make a profit to keep, while not inspiring the people to
defy them in open rebellion.’
‘And they practise this great skill by preying on women and
children?’
Ptolemy shrugged at Marcus.
‘The tax will be paid, the citizen’s family will be freed from their
temporary inconvenience. It is customary and, as the divine Julius
noted, soldiers and taxes are indivisible. It is impossible to have the
one without the other, and for the lack of either the other will fail. And
it is the way of the world. Come, the praetorium is this w—’
‘This normal?’
Something in Lugos’s voice made the Aegyptian flush bright red,
his hand trembling as he raised it to deny the question.
 ‘No! They usually only do this to the Jews!’
The giant’s eyes slitted, but, before he could act on his sudden
fury, Scaurus nodded his understanding, and raised a hand to
forestall the giant’s impending expression of the rage that was
clearly coursing through him.
‘Not yet, Lugos, or any of you.’ He turned back to Ptolemy. ‘Our
comrade is angry, because, like all of my familia, he does not react
well to the sight of innocents being victimised’ – he shook his head at
the baffled Aegyptian – ‘whether they be Jews or any other people.
For now, however, we must go to the praetorium, after a further brief
detour. I have some questions for the governor, once I have sought
out the man my banker recommended to me.’
An hour later, with his personal business completed, and free to
focus solely on the matter at hand, he allowed Ptolemy to guide
them through the city’s thronged streets to the seat of Roman power
in the city. Once inside the gates of the governor’s official residence,
admitted by armed legionaries to the cool, shaded precincts of the
sprawling marble edifice to imperial rule, Scaurus left the bulk of the
party to relax in the shadow of a high wall, drinking from the
courtyard fountains. Taking Marcus with him, he ascended the
stairways that led to the governor’s office, situated on the building’s
highest floor with a view over the city that, under happier
circumstances, he would have been eager to enjoy for as long as
possible. Strolling into the office’s anteroom they were presented
with the predictable sight of two long benches of men, supplicants
awaiting their turn to petition the emperor’s representative in the
province.
‘Greetings, gentlemen. You have an appointment with Prefect
Faustinianus?’
The two men stared flatly at the diary scribe who was blocking
their path, Marcus stepping forward with a look to Scaurus that made
his superior smile inwardly, while he composed his face to present a
stern expression.
‘Tribune Scaurus and I have travelled across Our Sea for two
weeks, to attend on the governor and receive his instructions.’
 The secretary shook his head, the very picture of a regretful
inability to allow them access to his master.
‘Gentlemen, if you have no appointment then I am not at liberty to
admit you. Indeed, if you persist with the request, I have standing
instructions to summon the sentries and have you escorted—’
He fell silent as Marcus leaned in close, although the Roman was
impressed with the degree to which the secretary’s apparent lack of
interest in their circumstances was otherwise unruffled. Doubtless
they were not the first men to have attempted to jump the queue,
doubtless they would not be the last. He had, Marcus mused,
probably already been worn smooth by the constant friction implicit
in his role, and he did, after all, have his orders. Nevertheless,
Marcus was unprepared to retreat in the face of the man’s obduracy.
‘This officer, Scribe, is Tribune Gaius Rutilius Scaurus. He is a
hero of the empire more times over than I can recall, his most recent
exploit having been the defeat and capture of the infamous bandit
turned would-be usurper, Maturnus, in the act of attempting to
assassinate the emperor himself. Tribune Scaurus has risked his life
for the empire on a multitude of occasions, and now, at the express
wish of Imperial Chamberlain Cleander, he has voyaged here aboard
the flagship of the praetorian fleet, ordered to be of service to this
province. He has sailed a thousand miles and more, commanded to
deal with whatever matter it is that has spurred this province’s
prefect himself to ask for assistance, and now you seek to deny him
a meeting with the very man who has called for his help?’ He shook
his head at the secretary, who was finally starting to wilt under the
heat of his anger, although the man was still clearly clinging to his
increasingly shredded authority. ‘Next you’ll be telling me that the
earliest you can fit him in is three days from now, and suggesting
that we await the pleasure of a few minutes in your master’s
presence by taking in the sights of the city. To which my answer is to
invite you to consider a sight yourself!’
He turned and pointed through the open archway at the Great
Harbour, where the Victoria was dominating the smaller craft around
her with her imposing size and martial grandeur, the sun gleaming
on her polished fixtures.
 ‘If we’re not the next men into that office behind us, then we’re
going to leave. Immediately. We will board the emperor’s praetorian
flagship, and immediately order the navarchus to muster his crew
from the dockside taverns and prepare for our prompt return to
Rome. It will then be up to your master to decide how best to inform
the chamberlain that the help he requested was turned away at the
door of his office. And then, presumably, to determine the best way
to pay you out for bringing about his dismissal from this most exalted
and lucrative of all the positions available to a man of the equestrian
class. I’d imagine that his repayment for your bringing about the
termination of his career in such an abrupt manner will be both
inventive and long-lasting, wouldn’t you? Although he might just
command his ceremonial lictors to beat you to death with their rods,
as his last command to them before relinquishing the role.’
He fell silent and fixed the hapless functionary with a level gaze,
waiting for the other man to speak, while Scaurus stood to one side
examining his fingernails.
‘I … er … that is to say …’ Realising that he was dithering in a
manner hardly suited to either his role or self-image, the secretary
made his mind up with commendable decisiveness. ‘On this one
occasion I will make an exception, for a hero of Rome.’ He turned to
the waiting citizens with a forced smile that invited any of them to
provide him with an opportunity to revive his dignity by taking equally
swift action in the event of any dissent. ‘After all, I feel sure that not
one of these gentlemen could offer a word of complaint at being
requested to undergo a short delay in order to facilitate matters of
such pressing importance to the emperor himself?’
Under Marcus’s equally questioning stare the gentlemen in
question shook their heads, the most senior among them standing to
shake Scaurus by the hand and state in florid terms that it would be
his absolute pleasure to forego his turn in the queue in favour of
such a pressing appointment, being careful to drop his own name
into the statement for future reference. With such an example, every
other citizen present nodded even more vigorously, and the two men
were grateful that it was at that moment that the inner office’s doors
opened as the prefect’s previous appointment left, revealing the man
himself. Dressed in a formal toga and evidently expecting to greet
his next supplicant in a suitably magisterial manner, he looked at the
diary secretary with an expression that did not bode well, evidencing
that Marcus’s prediction of violent unhappiness, should they have
chosen to decamp back to the flagship, had been better founded
than he had guessed.
‘Tribune Scaurus, Prefect, and his aide. They claim to be here at
the command of Chamberlain Cleander, and your other
appointments have spontaneously agreed to forego—’
The light of realisation dawned in the prefect’s eyes.
‘Gentlemen!’ He gestured to the inner office with a smile so
sudden and broad that Marcus wondered whether there might
perhaps be some hint of mania behind it. ‘Please, come and join
me!’ He made a fractional bow to the waiting men. ‘My apologies,
citizens, these officers are here to discuss matters of state which are
of the highest possible importance. I’m sure you all understand?’
Closing the door behind him he ushered them to a pair of chairs
beside his desk, clicking his fingers to order his assistant to provide
them with glasses of chilled wine.
‘Introductions, gentlemen. My name is Lucius Pomponius
Faustinianus, and I have the singular honour to be the praefectus
augustalis of this magnificent province. I know who you both are,
since Cleander was kind enough to dispatch a letter for me on the
same vessel that conveyed you across Our Sea.’ He waved a hand
at an opened message container lying on his desk with a pair of
scrolls beside it. ‘I must say that, for men who are supposed to be
dedicated servants of the throne, his descriptions of you both make
interesting reading.’
His servant served the wine in glasses, rather than the more usual
cups, and Marcus took his with a flash of memory to happier, more
innocent times. The exotic drinking vessel was every bit as fragile
and beautiful as those he remembered drinking from in his youth,
never having truly appreciated the wealth required for the provision
of such luxuries before the doom that had enveloped his entire
family. Dismissing the servant with a wave of his hand, Faustinianus
took a seat on the other side of the desk and looked at them with an
expression of calculation, his effusive bonhomie falling away to
reveal the man’s true nature as he took up the heavier of the two
messages and read from it out loud.
‘“I am sending you a party of men, among whom Rutilius Scaurus
is the foremost, and the man I expect to deal with the problem on
your southern border. He is an upstart equestrian who will insist on
taking a hand in affairs of state …”’ He fell silent, reading on without
speaking until he came to another line that he evidently felt impelled
to share. ‘“The other man you should consider as both hostile and
dangerous is the centurion who goes by the name of Tribulus
Corvus, but who is more accurately named Valerius Aquila, the son
of a traitor who should have died alongside his father.”’ Both men
stared back at him impassively, having heard much the same words
from too many mouths for them to carry any sting and, with a shrug,
he continued. ‘Cleander’s choice of instruments with which to resolve
this problem are novel, but then the man has always been the arch-
pragmatist. Although I’m forced to observe that you’re not exactly
what I asked him for.’
Scaurus leaned forward in his chair, fixing the other man with his
grey-eyed stare.
‘And what was it that you requested, Prefect? What is the problem
to the south that can’t be resolved by your local legion commander?’
‘The problem, Tribune Scaurus, isn’t exactly clear. The trade route
through the port of Berenike seems to have been cut in both
directions, apparently by hostile action. I have received a series of
somewhat garbled messages from the fortress at Koptos, apparently
written by a centurion, telling me that there’s been some sort of
invasion from the south, unlikely though that might seem. And what I
asked for was a legion, Tribune. Enough strength to prosecute a
swift war on the province’s southern border and resolve a local
difficulty that has stopped the flow of commerce from beyond the
empire’s edge. Tenth Fretensis and Third Cyrenaica are both within
a month’s march of here, and I had expected that Cleander would
have them both provide a detachment to make up a full legion.
Instead I have you, a practised exponent of the art of war, it seems,
but lacking in any strength …’ He raised the scroll. ‘Other than what
the chamberlain describes as “a ragtag handful of disaffected
officers and barbarians”. Quite how he expects you, with the strength
I can spare you, to master whatever it is that has cut us off from the
far south of the province, I have no idea. But no matter, I have
instructions for you, direct from the chamberlain, and so I suggest
you follow them to the letter.’
Scaurus took the second scroll as Faustinianus passed it across
the desk, breaking the seal and reading the few short lines before
looking up again.
‘It’s the usual order, more or less. Do what you need to do, using
whatever forces you need to use, and let no man stand in the way of
discharging your duty to the throne on pain of death. Which, as you
say, I must follow to the letter. So, what strength can you spare us,
do you think?’
The prefect shook his head, lips pursed, missing the barbed hook
that Scaurus had dropped into the discussion.
‘Not very much. I am granted a single legion to control this
province, much reduced from the three that were once deemed
necessary. There are garrisons of auxiliaries dotted around at
strategic points, but the real strength is here, commanding and
controlling this city.’
Scaurus raised an eyebrow.
‘You need to keep an entire legion for the purposes of policing
Alexandria? Surely the city watch will suffice for that task?’
Faustinianus shook his head with a knowing smile.
‘If only. Alexandria, like all the biggest cities, is a barely tamed
animal, crouching under the whip of its masters. And this city is
especially ready to erupt in violence, due to the nature of its
population. There are three parts to Alexandria, gentlemen, all
constantly bickering with each other and occasionally taking up arms
against each other, or even the state itself, depending on the
circumstances. The Greeks have ruled Aegyptus since Alexander
conquered the country, through the descendants of his lieutenant,
Ptolemy. They are a class unto themselves, like Greeks everywhere,
and naturally consider themselves to be better than the rest of the
populace. When we conquered Aegyptus, the divine Augustus
pragmatically allowed them to continue in that role, albeit it under our
rule. The Jews – of whom there are a multitude, which, of course,
breeds incessantly – are their usual selves, money-grubbing and
ever ready to take offence at the merest of slights. Jewish uprisings
are hardly unusual in this part of the world, and when they happen
they tend to be soaked in the blood of anyone who gets in their way.
And then there are the locals. Good for nothing more than manual
labour and street theft, and prone to a strong sense of being
outsiders in their own country. A mob, when roused, happy to burn
and loot without discrimination. And if all that wasn’t enough, there
are also the blasted Christians, who infest the population with their
“one God” nonsense, which is the perfect spark for a disastrous
uprising by any or all of them.’
‘Which would, of course, risk delaying the grain supply to Rome,
and see you replaced without delay. And which might be provoked at
any moment by the taxation fraud that you and Cleander are using to
make yourselves rich at the cost of brutalised citizens.’ Faustinianus
stared at Scaurus in angry surprise at the candour of his comment,
but the object of his ire returned the gaze without any apparent
concern. ‘Prefect, let us be very frank, because I have no intention of
letting good manners – which you have already abandoned in your
comments as to our provenance – get in the way of reality.’
He leaned back in the chair.
‘I have been sent here by your master – indeed, your co-
conspirator in the systematic robbery of the imperial treasury …’ He
raised a hand to prevent the eruption he saw building in the man
sitting opposite him. ‘Please don’t try to appear outraged, Pomponius
Faustinianus. A truly angry man loses the blood in his face and goes
white with rage, a reaction to his body preparing for the fight.
Whereas you have gone red and look nothing more than guilty. You
skim off a good portion of the trade that comes through this city, and
send it to Rome aboard vessels of the praetorian fleet, unseen and
untaxed, straight into the pocket of the chamberlain and from there,
in some measure, to your own. And you sell the rights to farm taxes
– an archaic practice that I had believed had long since been ended
across the entire empire – to criminal scum who pose as tax
collectors. You ignore the injustices they do in your name in return
for your share of the gold they extort from the population, and you
use the threat of your legion to legitimise and enforce their theft.’
Faustinianus stared back at him through anger-slitted eyes but
said nothing.
‘Your silence, Prefect, is eloquent.’ Scaurus pointed at the scroll
from the desk in front of the other man. ‘And now, of course, you’re
wondering whether to bring forward the quiet execution that
Cleander recommends for us both in that message, when the matter
we’ve been sent to attend to is done with. But that would be unwise,
Praefectus Augustalis. For one thing, your guards neglected to take
our weapons from us when we entered this magnificent building.
After all, what soldier is going to think to disarm a superior officer?
And on top of that …’
He took a wooden whistle from the purse on his belt.
‘Legion centurions use these to issue commands in battle. And
battle, as I very much doubt you’d know, is a very confusing place.
You’d be surprised how hard it can be to even think straight. All that
shouting and screaming, the stink of blood and shit, your friends
dying right in front of you … It’s enough to unman the strongest
minded among us. Which is why they make these things so loud. If I
blow this now, it will be heard all over the building, and the “ragtag
handful of disaffected officers and barbarians” I left waiting
downstairs will run wild, and redecorate your magnificent murals with
the blood of every man in the building. Not yours, of course, your
fate would be a little more protracted. Centurion Corvus, or “Two
Knives” as his soldiers named him the very first time they saw the
quality of his swordplay, will easily hold off your guards while I use
my blade to show you the colour of your own intestines. Being
strangled with a rope of your own guts would be a novel way to leave
this life, I’d imagine?’
Faustinianus raised his hands, palms forward.
‘Your execution? The thought hadn’t even entered my head!’
Scaurus shook his head disbelievingly.
‘I find that somewhat hard to believe. It certainly entered mine,
when I saw Cleander’s message to you go ashore the moment the
Victoria’s bow touched the quayside. So I went to see my banker’s
counterpart here in Alexandria, and deposited a letter of my own with
him, with instructions for it to be sent to Rome immediately by
various routes, land and sea. It will be received by several people
who have the ability to place the facts of what you and Cleander are
doing here in front of the emperor, with a request for them to do so in
the event of my untimely death. And as we both know, Prefect,
Commodus is well known for his lack of patience with anyone he
perceives to have done him wrong. If we fail to return to Rome in a
sufficiently timely manner then he will undoubtedly be informed of
the theft that his chamberlain and you have been perpetrating ever
since Cleander put you into this magnificent role, with your complicity
the price for your undeserved advancement over the heads of other,
better qualified men.’
He smiled without a trace of humour, the same dead-eyed twitch
of his lips that Marcus had seen him employ before when his anger
was close to the surface.
‘But of course there’s no need for any of that, if you behave in a
rational manner. Cleander sent us here to do a job, doubtless with
the expectation that the task in question stands a very good chance
of killing us all. So why not roll the dice alongside him, send us south
to deal with whatever it is that irks you both? After all, we might not
survive the experience. Although you’d better hope we do, if you’re
to avoid being executed for defrauding the throne.’
The prefect nodded slowly.
‘You’re an impudent bastard, aren’t you? I can see what it is that
makes Cleander put you to use, with all that self-belief. And it’s not
hard to see why he wants you dead either, although the reason why
he hasn’t simply had you executed eludes me. Very well, I can spare
you five hundred men.’
Scaurus smiled again, shaking his head in grim amusement before
leaning forward and delivering his response in a deadpan tone that
belied the evident anger in his eyes, a glare of disgust that set the
prefect back in his seat.
‘I’ll be marching south with six cohorts. And all the cavalry you
have. The other four cohorts will be more than enough to maintain
order in the city, if you cancel all leave and pull back the hunting
parties.’
Faustinianus stared at him in dismay, groping for a reply.
‘I … you …’
‘Will be taking whatever I want. Unless, perhaps, you’d care to roll
those dice on a different outcome. One involving your painful
demise.’ Scaurus stood suddenly, leaned forward and plucked
Cleander’s message from the desk in front of the gaping prefect.
‘And I’ll have this. It’ll make for interesting reading.’ He raised the
whistle to his lips. ‘You can either call for your guards and start the
excitement, or sit there, drink your wine and hope I manage to deal
with whatever it is that’s troubling your province and get myself killed
in the process. Good day, Praefectus Augustalis!’
He turned away from the desk, then remembered something and
readdressed the stunned prefect.
‘One last thing, Pomponius Faustinianus. I saw one of your tax
farmers being a little, shall we say, overzealous, in pursuit of the gold
that you and Cleander are generous enough to share with the
imperial treasury. I plan to chide him just a little, on my way to your
legion’s camp. I thought I ought to warn you, just in case the report
of that chastisement makes you wonder if the revolt you’ve done so
much to foment in the city’s population has begun. So you might be
wise to order the other “farmers” to reap their crops a little less
enthusiastically, because when word of what I plan to do to him gets
around, who knows what it might incite your subjects to do?’
 3

‘Good afternoon, Centurion …?’

The officer in question sprang to attention, unsure as to where the
immaculately dressed and equipped officer in front of him had
appeared from, and with no idea whatsoever who the man was, but
with no intention of providing him with any cause for dissatisfaction.
Senior officers, as he knew all too well, were completely capable of
being unreasonable, incompetent and, in some cases, downright
dangerous to themselves and those around them without ever
knowing it, and he hadn’t made it to command of a century without
learning when it would be sensible to keep his mouth shut, and wait
to see what sort of man he was dealing with. The late afternoon sun
was mild enough that he had ordered his men to put their helmets
back on a few moments before, and he snapped his right hand to the
brow guard of his own crested headgear as he answered the
newcomer’s question.
‘Petosorapis, sir!’
‘At ease then, Centurion Petosorapis. I’m Tribune Scaurus, your
new commanding officer. You’ve been detailed to keep an eye on
these bastards, have you?’
The centurion started, surprised both by the vehemence in
Scaurus’s voice and his unexpected statement of authority, but was
careful to keep his reply neutral despite the tribune’s jocular tone.
‘Standing orders, Tribune. Tax collectors are not to be hindered as
they go about their duties.’
The man standing before him, resplendent in shining bronze and
crisp white linen, turned away to watch the scene before them for a
moment before speaking again. Watched by a crowd that was, in
anything, larger than before, the debtor’s family were still struggling
to keep their burden off the ground. Their efforts were being brutally
encouraged by occasional, casual flicks of the overseer’s whip, while
the gang’s leader was sitting outside a nearby taverna with a jug of
wine and a bowl of food in front of him, the hapless debtor sitting
unhappily beside him.
‘There’s no sign of anyone paying off the tax debt then?’
‘No, sir.’ Petosorapis lowered his voice. ‘Sometimes the tax
collectors name an amount that can’t be paid off, because they fancy
something the debtor owns. Or one of his family.’
He tipped his head to the group fighting to keep the iron basket off
the ground, and Scaurus saw that the oldest child was in the first
flush of her womanhood.
‘You don’t mean they plan to …’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time, sir. We see a lot of what they get up to,
as we escort them round the city. Sometimes they make fun of us, if
a soldier looks like he doesn’t agree with what they’re doing. If it
weren’t for our orders, there’s more than one of my colleagues would
have had his lads take their iron to the bastards.’
The tribune nodded slowly.
‘In which case, you might find what I’m about to do refreshingly at
odds with your orders. And all you have to do, Centurion, is stand
here and do one thing.’
‘What’s that, sir?’
Scaurus smiled bleakly.
‘Nothing, Centurion.’
He strolled away from the detachment of soldiers and stopped a
few feet from the debtor’s family, looking about him with an
expression of dissatisfaction.
‘Help you?’
One of the thugs was walking towards him with his cudgel held
behind his back, the tax collector glancing at him over the edge of
his wine cup before returning his attention to the bowl of stew.
Evidently the man addressing him was deemed to have authority in
their group, and neither man expected any trouble from a military
official who was expected to be aligned with the prefect’s
expectations of them. Stopping in front of Scaurus with a look of
bored condescension on his face, he repeated the question with a
slow, deliberate insolence.
‘Can. I. Help. You?’
‘Yes.’ The Roman looked him up and down. ‘You could bathe, for a
start. You stink like a pig’s arse. And a recently washed tunic
wouldn’t hurt, you’ve piss-spotted that one too many times for it to
have been clean any time this week.’
He smiled beatifically, the expression so much at odds with what
he had just said that the man in front of him was momentarily lost for
words.
‘You … what?’
Scaurus pounced, putting a hand on the hilt of his sword and
stepping forward to put his face so close to the other man’s that the
thug recoiled at his shouted invective.
‘I am a fucking tribune of Rome, you diseased piece of shit! Get
out of my fucking face, and fetch the man who holds your rope
before I air my fucking blade and use it to open you from your chin to
your fucking balls!’
Caught between the urge to run, confronted by a ragingly furious
man of infinitely superior standing, and the urge to follow his instincts
and fight, the thug dithered, turning to look beseechingly at his
master, who, shaking his head wearily, made a great show of taking
another drink before getting up and strolling across to greet the
Roman.
‘I don’t know what this is, but we have the protection of the
provincial prefect himself, so I suggest that you find something better
to—’
‘Had.’
The tax collector frowned, uncomprehending, the final traces of his
patience dissipating in the face of the officer’s truculence, where only
a subservient response was expected.
‘What did you say?’
‘You had the protection of the prefect himself. And of all the
tribunes who suck from the same teat he does, and turn a blind eye
in return. But, as of a short time ago, that misguided provision of
imperial favour for your actions was revoked. By me.’
 The tax collector looked past Scaurus at the legionaries behind
him.
‘Are you lot just going to stand there and watch this nonsense?’
‘No.’ Petosorapis shook his head, then barked a command at his
men. ‘Tent party … about-face!’
The thug’s jaw dropped, as the soldiers smartly swivelled on the
spot and turned to face the crowd behind them.
‘It looks like the ultimate enforcers just turned their back on you.
Which just leaves you and me.’
The tax collector scowled, unwilling to be cowed by the threat of a
single man, no matter how exalted.
‘You’re forgetting that I’m not alone, friend. I don’t need that bunch
of barracks tossers to run my business.’ He shrugged off the hand
his deputy had put on his shoulder, clenching his fists in readiness to
attack. ‘I’m going to give you a practical demonstration of just what it
means to upset the wrong person, you … What?’
The last word was almost shouted, as another tug at his tunic, too
hard to be brushed off, made him turn to see what it was that his
second-in-command wanted.
‘What the fuck is it th …’
His bark of anger died half born at the sight of the men who had
stepped from the crowd, standing close enough to his own men that
a couple of paces would be enough to put them face to face. Five
were uniformed, some with cross-crested helmets identifying them
as centurions, and another two were heavily built barbarians, one so
large that the men closest to him were already backing away and
looking behind them for escape routes, both men finely dressed and
with their hair oiled and plaited. All were armed with drawn swords,
and each of them was looking at his men with expressions
somewhere between anger and eagerness. Their body language, to
a man raised on street fighting, screamed their readiness, perhaps
even a need, to do violence. The oiled hiss of polished iron against
the throat of a scabbard raised the hairs on his neck and arms, and
he turned slowly to find the tribune looking at him down the length of
a shining blade.
‘You can’t do this. The imperial prefect—’
 ‘Will learn to deal with the disappointment. After all, there are
doubtless other tax farmers every bit as efficient as you. Whether
they’re scum like you is a different matter. And, as my father used to
tell me, a man can only deal out his god’s justice to whoever his god
chooses to put in front of him. And my god, the Lightbringer, has
chosen to give me you.’ He raised his voice to shout a command.
‘Put down your weapons or you will be forcibly disarmed!’
After a moment the thugs dropped or lowered their cudgels to the
ground, looking at each other in bafflement.
‘And the knives! Don’t take us for fools.’
Their reluctance more pronounced, the gang divested themselves
of an assortment of blades, some with metal knuckle guards.
‘Search them!’
His men sheathed their weapons and moved in with the look of
experts, cowing the thugs with minimal but expert brutality – a slap, a
kick to spread a man’s legs wide for searching – with nothing to give
any indication that they were anything other than ready to use their
dangerous expertise to its fullest extent. The tribune put the tip of his
sword against the tax collector’s breastbone and smiled, a look of
great enjoyment replacing his previous anger.
‘Are you mad? If you kill us, the prefect will—’
‘Kill you?’ The Roman shook his head with evident amusement.
‘Why should I kill you? You’re much more valuable as an example to
others.’
He strolled forward into the centre of the circle, surrounded on all
sides by confused citizenry. The tax collector’s victim was gathering
his family about him, and showering his thanks on a bemused
Ptolemy while the other members of Scaurus’s familia herded the
thugs into a tight knot, roping them together with cord taken from a
market vendor to prevent any of them making a run for it.
‘People of Alexandria! The emperor’s taxes are required to pay for
the legions that protect you, and the administration of our empire!
Obedience to tax collection is a duty we all share! But these men
have gone beyond their authority and acted like nothing better than
common criminals!’
‘But we have the authority—’
 The erstwhile tax collector’s shouted protest ended violently,
Lugos casually backhanding him into silence before pivoting at the
waist to sink a massive fist into his gut, in just the way their victim
had been treated earlier. His victim vomited his meal across the
cobbles and sank to the ground, submitting to being tied to his
associates without fully comprehending what was happening to him.
‘So, like common criminals, they will be subjected to the imperial
code of justice.’ He turned to the sullen prisoners. ‘You are hereby
sentenced to service in the army. You will be taken far from here,
hopefully to be replaced by others who will be more inclined to
behave like imperial officials rather than robbers and rapists!’ He
turned to Ptolemy. ‘Lead us to the city’s garrison.’
‘But you can’t … we can pay you!’
The captive tax collector gestured beseechingly, hampered by the
rope tied around one arm, and Scaurus shook his head at the
desperate offer.
‘Your gold has no allure for us. You stole it from the emperor’s
treasury, which makes it tainted.’
‘But there’ll be others to take our places!’
The Roman gestured to Ptolemy, who led them through the crowd,
which parted as Dubnus strode forward into their ranks behind him at
the small column’s head.
‘Undoubtedly so. But as I told you, a man can only deal with the
evil that’s put in front of him. I’ll have to trust that this will act as an
example and moderate the behaviour of your fellow farmers. And
let’s face it, you’re getting off lightly.’ The tax collector stared at him
in disbelief. ‘I know, it doesn’t feel that way, but trust me, this might
all have been much worse. One of these days this city’s population
will decide that they’ve had enough. And on that day, as your
colleagues will discover, a few sticks and daggers won’t protect you
against the wrath of an enraged mob.’

‘From now on my name is Lucius. The name Cotta probably hasn’t

been forgotten by the officers of Trajan’s Second Legion, given what
I did to “their” emperor. So if they were to find out that they had the
man they think denied them their imperial payday among them, then
I wouldn’t last much longer than a virgin boy in a Greek soldiers’
mess. Have we all got that?’
The veteran centurion turned to Ptolemy with a forbidding look,
and after a moment the scholar realised that he was expected to
reply.
‘Of course, Centurion!’
Cotta nodded grimly.
‘Just don’t forget. Because if I find myself in imminent danger of
having my wind stopped because you managed to drop my name at
the wrong moment, then you can be sure that you’ll be crossing the
river ahead of me.’
The party had left Alexandria through the eastern gates, walking
the mile-long road from the city’s walls to the legion fortress, the
sullen file of prisoners looking around themselves in growing horror
at the depth of their predicament. The crowd of eager citizens which
had followed them through the city streets, presumably in the hope
of further violence being done to the former tax collector and his
men, had gradually thinned out as the lack of any such
entertainment became apparent. By the time they passed through
the gate only a single figure was walking behind them, albeit at a
respectful distance. As the party approached the white painted walls
of the legion’s camp, Scaurus looked back and then hooked a thumb
back over his shoulder.
‘Now that we’ve established who you are, Centurion Lucius,
perhaps you’d like to go and see what it is that our shadow back
there wants?’
Cotta nodded and turned back, placing himself firmly in the path of
their follower. Wearing a clean white linen coat, his beard grown
long, he was in the middle years of his life with a calm, regarding
expression. He stopped at Cotta’s raised right hand, putting both
hands behind his back and studying the veteran’s clothing and
equipment with apparent interest.
‘That’s far enough, friend.’
The other man bowed slightly at the command, smiling
disarmingly.
 ‘Greetings to you, Centurion. May the peace and blessings of Our
Lord Almighty be upon you and give your soul rest from the trials and
tribulations of this life.’
Cotta nodded, his expression knowing.
‘Christian. I ought to have known it just from the look of you. Let
me guess …’ He paused theatrically, putting a finger to his chin in an
exaggerated show of thought. ‘You saw us deal with this scum and
thought, these are the men for me. If I can just convert them to my
superstitious little cult, then my fellow cannibals and incest-mongers
will be pleased with me. Is that it?’
The other man smiled slowly, his eyes alive with the pleasure of
religious debate.
‘I have long enjoyed the stories of how the Christos evicted the
money changers from the temple. And after all, if the meek are to
indeed inherit this world, it will be up to men like yourselves to not
only provide a salutary example of how it is right and fitting for men
with authority to behave, but on occasion to punish the unworthy.’
He gestured to the shuffling prisoners.
‘And if there is a better example of the unworthy being punished, I
have yet to see it. I was hoping to speak with your tribune, and to
volunteer my services in whatever it is that has brought you here
from Rome.’
Cotta frowned, then turned back to the men waiting behind him.
‘He’s a Christian! And he wants to know what brings us here from
Rome!’
Scaurus walked back to join him, frowning at the apparent ease
with which their mission seemed to have been uncovered.
‘Your name?’
The bearded man bowed respectfully.
‘I am called Demetrius.’
‘And you are a Christian?’
‘Yes, Tribune. I was called to follow the saviour’s path ten years
ago and have never wavered in my belief from that day to this.’
‘And before that?’
The Christian paused momentarily, looking straight at Scaurus.
 ‘I was a persecutor of my brothers and sisters in the Christos. I
served in your army, recruited in Greece to serve in Judea, and
before I came to see the unavoidable truth of their beliefs, I was
responsible for the making of more than one martyr for God’s truth.’
‘More than one?’ Cotta shook his head in dark amusement. ‘How
many more than one? And how is it that you come to be accepted by
them, if you have done them such harm?’
Scaurus spoke first.
‘One or one hundred, the number is immaterial. This man has
pursued the members of a religious cult only to find himself unable to
resist becoming a part of it. As to your other question, I have some
familiarity with Demetrius’s faith, born of my desire to understand
what drives its members to make martyrs of themselves. I believe
that forgiveness is at the heart of your beliefs?’
‘It is.’ The Christian beamed with pleasure. ‘It is central to our faith
that no man can be refused forgiveness, if he truly repents of his
sins. Our Lord Jesus the Christos himself forgave the man who
betrayed him and condemned him to die on the cross at the hands of
—’
‘We know.’ Scaurus interrupted with the air of a man who knew
that a sermon was imminent, and who had neither the time nor the
patience to listen. ‘And I know what it is that you hope to gain from
this conversation.’
Demetrius raised an eyebrow.
‘You must be a very perceptive man, Tribune, to know what is in
my mind.’
‘It doesn’t take a genius, Christian. After all, even if we weren’t in
the company of a pair of fearsome northern barbarians, my officers
obviously aren’t from around here. On top of which, I’ve already seen
you once today, haven’t I?’
Demetrius nodded.
‘Yes. I saw you on the deck of the Victoria as the warship entered
the harbour, along with your companions.’
‘You were standing on the island on which the lighthouse of
Pharos is built.’
 ‘I was drawn there today, without knowing why. When your ship
approached the harbour I knew immediately that this was a moment
of importance to me. To my faith. God spoke to me at the instant that
I saw you.’
‘What did he say? There’s a man with plenty of gold, why not go
and see if you can charm some of it out of him with the usual wild
tales of a man being crucified and then rising from the dead?’
The Christian ignored Cotta’s jibe as if he hadn’t heard it.
‘He told me that you are his vessel – his unwitting but faithful
instrument in spreading our faith to the unbelieving peoples.’
He stared at Scaurus levelly, and the Roman shook his head in
polite but firm disbelief.
‘I follow a different path. The Lightbringer is my god.’
‘Our God is everybody’s god, my friend. He smiles on you no
matter what path you follow. And he will judge you in the afterlife
according to the good you do in this one. I see much good in you,
Tribune. You would make a fine addition to our church.’
Scaurus laughed softly.
‘Flattery is unlikely to get you very much from me.’
Demetrius spread his hands wide in a gesture of innocence.
‘Not flattery. Sincere appreciation for the acts of a just man. You
have been in this city for less than a day, and already you have freed
a family from the threat posed to them by an emperor’s
wrongdoings.’
The Roman shook his head, no longer amused.
‘I wouldn’t go shouting that praise too loudly, friend, or you’ll find
yourself emulating your one-time leader and joining the list of
martyrs to your cause.’
The Greek shrugged.
‘I would not be the first, nor would I be the last. We have
something in common, my brothers and sisters in the Christos, which
is that we are all willing to give our lives for our beliefs.’
Cotta snorted another laugh, but Scaurus’s expression remained
stern.
‘You’re hardly the first religion to inspire the authorities of the day
to execute men they see as zealots. The word martyr is itself Greek,
not Latin.’
‘Which makes the prospect an honourable one, does it not.’
Scaurus shook his head in exasperation.
‘I do not have the time to debate with you. I suggest you return to
the city and go about the task of being a good, loyal citizen.’
Demetrius bowed deeply.
‘Please do go about your business, Tribune. I will be here when
you emerge, ready to follow you wherever it is that your mission
takes you. When the time comes for your part in Our Lord’s plan to
be made clear to us both, I must be ready to play my part. Whatever
that may be.’

Scaurus and Marcus were ushered into the lamp-lit office of the
legion’s commanding officer, to be greeted by a tall, watery-eyed
man dressed in a uniform tunic to which he seemed not entirely
suited, lacking any of the physical self-confidence that was usual in
men of his exalted position, whether justified or not. He stuck out a
hand somewhat self-consciously, as if he were emulating the
expected demeanour of a legion commander rather than actually
performing the role.
‘Greetings, gentlemen, I am Lucius Caesius, praefectus legionis of
the Second Traiana. There’s no legate rank to be had in Aegyptus,
just as there’s no governor, just prefects appointed by the emperor
from the equestrian class. A glass of wine, Tribune?’
Gesturing to the chairs facing his desk, he nodded to his steward,
a uniformed soldier who, apparently well accustomed to the senior
officer’s habits, stepped forward with two cups before retreating from
the room. Scaurus took a sip, watching over the wooden cup’s rim as
the other man drank deeply, noting his expression of pleasure mixed
with what looked somewhat like relief. Their arrival had been notified
earlier in the day by an advance party consisting of Qadir and
Avidus’s engineers, and the party had been admitted with a
minimum of fuss, swiftly allocated to a barrack block, and their
prisoners taken away for processing into the legion’s ranks without
comment, once Scaurus had declared their fate to the duty
centurion. The camp seemed, on the surface at least, to be
efficiently run, its guard posts manned and its streets spotlessly
clean, exactly as defined in the military manuals by which the army’s
centurionate discharged their responsibilities. Such neatness and
order seemed at odds with the prefect’s apparent lack of any spark
of martial vigour, and the Roman found himself wondering just who
was the source of the legion’s discipline.
‘So tell me, Tribune Scaurus, what is it that I can do for you?’
Scaurus set the wine down on the table before him.
‘You have no word from the governor, Prefect?’
The other man shook his head.
‘Other than a one-line message to grant you all realistic assistance
with your mission, no. What is it that you’ve been ordered to do?’
‘Go south and find out exactly what it is that has cut
communications with the trading port of Berenike.’
The prefect leaned back in his chair, taking another deep drink
from his cup.
‘Ah, that. I was wondering when that was going to excite some
interest from Rome.’
Scaurus shook his head in bafflement.
‘Ah, that? You’ve been aware of this apparent invasion from the
south for how long? A month?’
‘At least.’
‘And yet—’
‘We’ve done nothing? You’ve met Praefectus Augustalis
Faustinianus, have you not? You should already be very clear as to
his priorities. They are made abundantly clear to me every time we
meet.’
Scaurus nodded.
‘I can imagine. And yet …’
‘I should have found a way to investigate? Despite his repeated
orders to maintain a grip of the city and ensure the flow of tax
revenue to Rome? Perhaps I should.’
‘But you haven’t done so.’
‘No.’
The legion commander drained his cup and called for another. His
steward, clearly well drilled in this evidently frequent request, entered
the room with a full cup and removed the empty. When he had gone
the senior officer spoke again.
‘Look at me, Rutilius Scaurus, and tell me what you see.’
Scaurus nodded his understanding.
‘You invite me to excuse you from your duty on the grounds of
what, an uncontrolled love for wine? A position that you neither
expected nor desired? A role that you have unexpectedly been
granted mainly to ensure your legion’s loyalty to Cleander, and his
various means of extorting money from this province?’
‘And there you have it.’ The prefect drank again. ‘I am purely a
figurehead here. A conduit for the orders that flow from above. As to
what I’m doing here, I’m every bit as bemused as the look on your
face tells me you are. My family is rather better known for producing
scholars than for its military men. I was appointed without an
expectation of being so honoured, after a career that was at best
average, and with no more experience than a military tribunate in
Dacia fifteen years ago. I am almost completely unqualified to
command a legion, and yet here I am: unqualified, unwanted and, it
has to be said, unneeded, for the most part. The Second is run for
me by a most efficient body of officers, centurions for the most part,
and the keenest of my tribunes, and this is, I am sure you will agree
once you have seen them exercise, a fine body of men, well trained
and with the purest of motivations. There is no fraud within these
walls – indeed, my first spear would rather fall on his sword than
participate in any of those schemes involving recruits who don’t exist
or mythical hunting parties to explain absent soldiers. But neither is
there any opportunity for us to do what is usually expected of a
legion. My men march around the city keeping the peace and
ensuring that the tax collectors can go about their task unobstructed,
and …’
Seeing Scaurus’s expression change, he raised a questioning
eyebrow.
‘You’ll have one less tax farmer to protect after this afternoon.’
Caesius listened with a growing look of amazement as Scaurus
told him what he had done on his way from the praetorium. Emptying
his cup, he called for another, shaking his head in amazement.
 ‘You’ve got balls, Rutilius Scaurus, I’ll give you that! You do realise
that Faustinianus will appoint another tax collector as soon as he
finds out about this?’
Scaurus shrugged.
‘As I told the vicious bastard who was victimising the people of the
city this afternoon, I can only deal with the injustices that are put
before me, Prefect.’ He sipped at his own wine. ‘Which are your six
best cohorts? If your first spear is a traditionalist, then perhaps he’s
adhered to the old rule that the Second, Fourth, Seventh and Ninth
Cohorts are those which contain the youngest and rawest recruits?’
The other man shook his head languidly.
‘I really have no idea. I’m sure he will have an excellent grasp of
the legion’s capabilities. Shall I have him report to us?’
‘That would be helpful, Prefect. How much I will be able to achieve
here depends on what sort of legion he and his officers have built for
you, and whether I will be marching south in command of lambs or
lions.’

The Second Legion’s first spear’s craggy features were carefully

composed as he stood at the head of his senior centurions, his
brown skin creased and wrinkled from exposure to the elements.
Leaning against the praetorium’s wall off to one side of the Second’s
assembled centurionate was a man of about twenty-five, dressed in
the same thin-striped tunic that Scaurus and Marcus wore, his face
carefully neutral as the legion’s officers regarded the new arrivals
with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty.
‘If I may, Prefect?’
Caesius smiled wanly at Scaurus, waving a hand.
‘By all means, Tribune.’
The Roman turned to face the line of men.
‘Gentlemen, I suggest you stand at ease. This might take a while.’
The first spear barked a terse order, and his men settled into a
marginally less stiff posture while the military tribune smiled
knowingly and met Marcus’s glance with a nod of greeting.
‘Thank you.’ He turned to the assembled men, his next words
stiffening the centurions’ backs as his expectation of primacy in their
small world became clear. ‘Officers of Trajan’s Second Legion, I bear
orders from the emperor himself! They are orders that I, and you, are
expected to follow without either question or hesitation.’
The officers kept their gazes level, clearly unwilling to deviate from
their senior centurion’s expectations of iron discipline, and after a
moment their leader spoke, his voice the same iron-hard, grating
rasp to which Scaurus and the men of his familia were accustomed
in men who expected their commands to be both heard and instantly
obeyed at a hundred paces. His Latin was almost unaccented, as if
spoken from birth.
‘There has been speculation, Tribune.’
‘I can imagine, First Spear …?’
‘Abasi, Tribune.’
‘Let me put that speculation to rest then, Abasi. If the inveterate
gamblers among your cohorts have been accepting odds on a march
south with any sort of generosity then they are likely to regret that
decision.’
The other man nodded curtly.
‘That is as expected, sir. How many cohorts?’
Marcus raised an eyebrow at the lounging tribune, who smiled
fractionally and nodded agreement with his unspoken sentiment.
‘Straight to business, First Spear?’
‘Why waste time in discussion, Tribune? Tell me how many men
you want ready to march, and when, and I will make it happen.’
The watching tribune levered himself off the wall and stepped
forward, raising a hand in salute.
‘First Spear Abasi is, as you will already have noticed, almost
laconic in his brevity.’ He flashed a grin at the senior centurion. ‘It
might not entirely surprise you, Sese, if I don’t share your enviable
lack of concern with where we might be going, and what we might be
expected to achieve. It isn’t every day that men like these step off an
imperial flagship and stroll into the fortress carrying marching orders
straight from the Palatine Hill. So forgive me, gentlemen’ – he half
bowed to Scaurus and Marcus – ‘if I’m just a little keener than old
leather lungs here to know what’s afoot? My name is Julius Fabius
Turbo, senior tribune of the legion.’
 He glanced down at the thin purple stripe that lined his tunic,
obviously drawing attention to the social status that allowed him to
feel comfortable in bestowing an evidently fond nickname on a man
ten years older and with a good twenty years more military
experience. Marcus shot a glance at Abasi, only to find his face set
in the same expressionless mask.
‘Well then, Tribune Turbo, since you ask …’ Scaurus was choosing
to play it straight, ignoring the jocularity that invited him to treat the
younger man as an equal. ‘I do indeed carry orders from the palace,
orders given to me in person by the imperial chamberlain, along with
the command to either resolve the matter causing him great distress
on the emperor’s behalf or, put simply, not to return.’
‘I tan, I epi tas?’
The younger man had switched from Latin to Greek to reference
the ancient Spartan command from a wife or mother to her husband
or son on handing him his shield, something that all educated
Romans learned as part of their grounding in the classics.
‘With this, or upon this?’ Scaurus nodded solemnly, choosing not
to match the tribune’s knowing smile. ‘Yes, that’s very apt, given your
reference to Spartan brevity a moment ago. I am indeed invited to
return with my shield, or else on it. Victory or death. And
Chamberlain Cleander, being the pragmatist that I can assure you
from previous experience he is, has left it up to me to determine how
to discharge my orders, as is his habit. On the one hand, it can make
for unexpected conflict, when it becomes clear that I can only
discharge those orders at the expense of other men’s dignity. On the
other, the very lack of their specificity means that no man can point
to them and try to tell me that their commands are out of bounds to
me as they are not listed in the order. I am simply empowered, as
always, to demand complete and unquestioning cooperation from all
and any servants of the throne, whenever and wherever I should
require it. Cooperation which, from the stream of irate complaints his
office receives from wherever it is that his orders send me across the
empire, the chamberlain knows I am somewhat adept in procuring.
One way, or another. Easy or hard.’
‘And your demands of us are …?’
 ‘The Second Legion’s six most competent cohorts, fully manned,
two cohorts of auxiliary light infantry and a wing of cavalry, at least to
start with. Oh, and all of your artillery with the exception of the
catapults. We can gather up more strength as we march south.’
‘I see. And Augustal Prefect Faustinianus was agreeable to this
requirement?’
Scaurus smiled, showing his teeth.
‘The augustal prefect, Tribune Turbo, had no more choice in the
matter than I did, when I was ordered to board a warship and flung
across Our Sea at breakneck speed, ordered to resolve a problem
that the augustal prefect is apparently incapable of dealing with. That
might be overly harsh, of course. Perhaps Pomponius Faustinianus
is simply forbidden to abandon his first responsibility, which is
evidently to wring as much tax as possible from the province. Either
way it makes no difference, as it results in my having been ordered
to take whatever steps are required to restore normality to this part
of the empire. I trust you understand the position that puts us both
in?’
The other man inclined his head.
‘I think I have a grasp of it. I will be subordinate to you in all
matters for the duration of your mission to investigate this matter.’
Scaurus nodded, twisting the blade of his advantage with his next
statement.
‘Correct. And to whoever I choose to appoint to command in my
absence. Which will be my colleague Tribulus Corvus here, a man of
our class who has previously filled the role of tribune to my legatus in
the past. Rank can be somewhat fluid, when operating under the
chamberlain’s orders.’
Turbo shot a swift, startled glance at Marcus’s centurion’s uniform,
but if Scaurus was looking to defuse a potential conflict by provoking
confrontation, he was disappointed.
‘As you say, your orders are all encompassing.’
‘Indeed.’ The Roman turned back to Abasi and his men. ‘So, First
Spear, how quickly can you have my six cohorts ready to march?’
The senior centurion’s expression didn’t change from its studied
impassivity.
 ‘Twelve hours, Tribune.’
‘You’re sure that’s enough time, First Spear? You must have men
on passes in the city who will have to be called back, and every
legionary must be properly equipped, blades sharpened, boots shod,
armour riveted, supplies packed …’
Abasi nodded at Scaurus with the certainty of a man in complete
command of a legion he considered his own.
‘Twelve hours will be enough.’
Scaurus nodded equably.
‘Very well, First Spear, in that case we will march soon after dawn
tomorrow. I trust that the legion’s young gentlemen can be ready to
the same schedule?’
Abasi’s smile was barely detectable, more a reflection of his new
tribune’s attempt at humour than genuine amusement.
‘As ready as they can be, Tribune.’
Scaurus nodded his agreement.
‘Very well. Start making your preparations, gentlemen, and we’ll
discuss the ins and outs of how to go about dealing with whoever
has deprived the empire of its southernmost port later this evening.’
As the meeting broke up, Dubnus tapped Ptolemy on the shoulder.
‘Earn a little of that sword tuition you insist on receiving, little
sparrow. What does the word “laconic” mean?’
Ignoring the nickname with the flicker of a frown, the Aegyptian
dropped into his customary didactic style.
‘It comes from the name given by the Greeks to the kingdom of
men we call Spartans. Lacedaemon was the name of that land, and
its people were famous for their use of half a dozen well-chosen
words where anyone else would use a hundred to less effect. It has
become known as “laconic”, in their honour. An example that I am
fond of is their response to the king of Macedon, Alexander the
Great’s father, who, having invaded southern Greece and received
the submission of every other city-state, sent a message to the
Spartans asking them whether he should come to them as a friend,
or as a foe.’
Dubnus nodded.
 ‘A good approach. It has a threat, and yet promises peace under
the right terms. How did they reply?’
‘With one word. Neither.’
‘Neither? By the gods, that’s good! But surely this king just
invaded, having been put down hard?’
Ptolemy shook his head.
‘Not at all. Even a hundred and fifty years after the heroic stand of
the three hundred at Thermopylae, and bearing in mind that Sparta
was no longer the pre-eminent state in Greece, their reputation in
battle was still enough to deter Philip from attacking. And so he sent
a further message, warning that if he brought his army to
Lacedaemon he would destroy their farms, kill every Spartan and
raze the city to the ground. And can you guess how many words the
Spartan responded with?’
‘Two?’
Ptolemy shook his head with a smile.
‘One. If.’
The Briton smiled slowly.
‘That’s …’
‘Laconic. One word with enough meaning in it that neither Philip
nor Alexander ever invaded.’
‘I like this. You can teach me all the “laconic” that’s in your head,
and in return I’ll show you how to emasculate a man with a single
thrust of your blade.’
The Aegyptian nodded slowly, his thoughts dragged abruptly from
the pleasure of being a teacher to the tribulations of being taught by
so exacting a master.
‘Thank you. I think …’
 4

‘The port of Berenike is situated here …’ Ptolemy pointed to a spot

on the map laid out before the officers far to the south of Alexandria,
on the shores of a narrow sea whose name was marked as Mare
Rubrum.
With the fortress a hive of frantic activity, as Abasi’s centurions
strove to make good on his promise to ready the legion for the march
by the next morning, Scaurus had called his key officers to the
principia to discuss his proposed approach to the task at hand. The
scribe had unexpectedly found himself the focus of the room’s
collective attention, having been ordered to make all present familiar
with the geography of the problem that faced them.
‘Why is it called the Red Sea?’
‘Because, Centurion, in the right light it has a red tinge. The
reason is unknown, although many philosophers have attempted to
explain the phenomenon.’
He looked at Dubnus questioningly, but the big Briton simply
nodded at his answer and remained silent.
‘The port was founded four hundred years ago by Ptolemy the
Second, the son of the Greek warrior king who took Aegyptus for his
own after Alexander’s death. He named it after his mother, with, we
are told, the suffix Troglodytai, referencing the local inhabitants of
caves in a range of hills. Although from my readings of the writers of
his day I am convinced that the original name was Trogodytai, and
that lazy copyists have identified these ancient tribes as cave
dwellers rather than the term’s original meaning, people of the
desert.’ He looked around the group of officers in evident hope of
some reaction, waiting in vain for a moment, and then continued with
a slight shake of his head at their lack of interest in his academic
prowess. ‘It was built at the head of a bay, which the geographer
Strabo named Sinus Immundus, after the Greek Akathartos Kolpos.’
‘The Unclean Bay.’
‘Indeed, Tribune Scaurus. Something to do with the currents,
doubtless. It is separated from the valley of the river Nilus by a range
of mountains which contain emerald mines, the Mons Smaragdi.’
‘Literally, the Emerald Mountains?’
‘I believe that the gems are prolific in the area, and mined, of
course, under the control of imperial officials. The port stands on the
flat ground between the sea and the mountains.’
‘It is used for the import of goods from the east, I assume?’
Ptolemy nodded at Marcus.
‘Yes, Tribune. It is the most important port on the eastern coast.’
‘But why there? Surely a port further up the Red Sea and closer to
the capital would make more sense? Why spend money carting
goods up the coast when a ship could take them north so much
more quickly and cheaply?’
‘It is a safe anchorage, and being further south than the other
major port on the Red Sea, Myos Hormos, it can often be easier to
reach from the south. The winds, you see …?’
‘The winds?’
The scribe waved a hand over the map.
‘There is a weather phenomenon in this part of the world that we
call the mawsim, with a pattern that repeats every year and brings
the rains that make the river Nilus flood, and washes rich black soil
downriver from the highlands of the far south, giving the farmers of
the river’s delta the most fertile land in the world. In the winter the
wind blows from the south-west, making it easy to sail up the Red
Sea but hard to sail down it, whereas in the summer that position is
reversed, and a laden merchant vessel heading north up the Red
Sea, returning from a trade voyage begun in the spring, would be
hard-pressed to make a more northerly port unless by good fortune
or the painful labour of its oarsmen. Being further south is a definite
advantage for a trader based in Berenike, as he will often be more
easily able to make port when laden, and find the tricky winds and
frequent storms easier to cope with for the same reason.’
 ‘But all the same, this port is hardly critical to the empire’s survival,
is it? Or even for the continuation of the trade that puts silk on rich
women’s bodies and spices in their kitchens?’
Ptolemy smiled at Marcus’s question.
‘And expensive steel-edged weapons in your hands, Centurion.
The finest iron in the world comes from the east.’
‘The port’s loss is a flea bite for the empire.’ Scaurus looked down
at the map for a moment before continuing. ‘But no empire which
suffers even the slightest reverse can afford to ignore the discomfort
of that flea bite, for fear that other fleas will be encouraged to bite in
their turn. And that’s before we bear in mind that a good-sized
portion of the money that the emperor depends on comes from this
province. And that much of that will be taxation of the traders
importing luxury goods from the east at the point they bring those
goods into the empire, where they are more easily identified by
means of their transportation and therefore easily taxed. This port
has a prefect in command, I presume?’
‘Indeed it does.’ The Greek was eager to display his knowledge.
‘The praefectus praesidiorum et montis berenicidis.’
‘And nothing has been heard from this prefect for how long,
Prefect?’
Caesius, who had made a point of waving away the wine that each
of the officers was sipping from, much to his senior tribune’s poorly
hidden amusement, answered in a tone that was almost brisk.
‘Word came from Koptos, an auxiliary fort five days march to the
north-west of the port, that contact had been lost with the prefect and
his command, a full part-mounted auxiliary cohort. This came five
days after the last message received from the prefect himself, that a
trader’s caravan had been stripped clean by desert raiders, and that
he was taking his force to the south, with the intention of finding and
destroying the bandits involved.’
‘Which he seems to have failed to do, and probably at the cost of
his command and his own life. A dismal failure, if the enemy involved
were no more than a ragged band of opportunistic robbers.’
‘That’s an easy charge to lay at a man’s door without actually
placing yourself in his boots, Tribune Scaurus.’
 All eyes turned to the young tribune, whose opinion had been
voiced in a questioning tone. Scaurus nodded curtly, his expression
unchanged.
‘I understand your point, Turbo. But in the absence of knowing
anything about him beyond his name and official title, it’s hard to
know how competent a job he would have done, is it not?’
The younger man stepped forward, his eyes bright with the
certainty of his social rank’s equality to that of his new commander.
‘On the contrary, Tribune, his competency seemed evident
enough, to me. Prefect Servius was the model of a Roman officer
and gentleman.’
‘You know the man?’
‘I have met him.’ The young tribune smiled. ‘My father paid for me
to undertake a journey up the Nilus prior to joining the legion, and
when I reached Koptos I decided to spend some time getting to
know the area.’
‘Did you indeed? In which case you must have much to share with
us. Tell me about this prefect, if you will.’
‘He is a decent man, a member of our class, Tribune. And, I would
add, a man to whom I warmed as being devoted to his duty, with a
firm grasp of his role. We dined together on more than one occasion,
and became friends. Indeed, he took me out on patrol into the
desert, and across the river into the land of the desert dwellers who
occupy the oases far to the west of the Nilus. He was more than
kind, introducing me to their royalty on a routine show-of-force visit,
and indulging me in all manner of discussions as to his role in the
region.’
To Marcus’s eye Scaurus’s expression softened slightly, perhaps
in recognition of a kindred spirit, of sorts.
‘And your conclusion, from what he told you?’
‘His command is positioned to protect the road from Berenike to
the river crossing and port at Koptos from the depredations of the
local desert bandits, in addition to keeping an eye on the dwellers of
the western desert. These bandits are from the same tribe as inhabit
the oases to which he took me and go by the name of Blemmyes.
They live in the desert between the road and river, a barren waste
without roads where we are unable to control them, and they take
every opportunity to raid the caravans that carry trade goods, as the
merchants transport their cargoes north from Berenike. They are a
stubborn people, and difficult to control, well familiar with the desert,
and of late it seems that they have become a good deal bolder in
their forays. Servius knew he would have to deal with them, sooner
rather than later.’
‘I see.’ The Roman stared up at the map thoughtfully. ‘And I
suppose that—’
‘A further thought occurs to me, Tribune?’ Scaurus turned back to
the younger man, gesturing to him to speak. ‘I had quite a good look
at the forts situated along the road north from Berenike, and it
seemed to me that they were there for two reasons.’
‘One being to protect the trade passing up and down those roads,
I assume?’ Turbo nodded. ‘And the other?’
‘Each fort is built around a well.’
‘Your colleague is right, Tribune Scaurus!’ Ptolemy pointed at the
map with fresh animation. ‘These watering stations are called
hydreumata, or hydreuma in the singular. The course of the road is
determined by the presence of wells or springs to provide water to
the men and beasts of each caravan making their way to and from
the ports.’
Scaurus jumped to the point that he suspected Ptolemy was about
to make.
‘How much water can each fort provide?’
‘More than enough to refresh a hundred camels and the men
guiding them.’
‘Camels? What’s a camel?’
They turned to look at Dubnus, Scaurus smiling at his centurion.
‘Our comrade here hails from the far north of the empire and is
unfamiliar with the beast.’
‘Ah, yes.’ The diminutive scholar adopted the lecturing tone with
which they had become familiar, clearly eager to demonstrate his
expertise to his tutor. ‘Kamelos in Greek, from the ancient local term,
gamal. A beast introduced to Aegyptus by Rome, a truly marvellous
creature that can go for as long as ten days without drinking, due to
its ability to store large quantities of water in a fleshy hump upon its
back. It is further blessed with a third eyelid, which is transparent,
with which to clear sand from its eyes when blown there by the wind,
and—’
The burly Briton interrupted with a look of disbelief.
‘You wouldn’t be inventing any of these magical properties, would
you, sparrow? Because if I discover you to be attempting to deceive
me for the purpose of humour at my expense, I’ll take that sword
you’re so fond of waving around and sheathe it where the sun never
shines!’
‘It’s true!’
Dubnus looked from the scribe to Marcus, who nodded
encouragingly, reluctantly ceding the point with a sour expression.
‘You can show me one of these amazing creatures, one day soon.’
‘And you will be amazed when you do set eyes on such a beast.
An adult camel can drink a dozen amphorae of water in less time
than it would take you to run a mile, and can—’
Scaurus coughed ostentatiously.
‘Returning to the point of our discussion?’ Ptolemy bowed
apologetically, gesturing for him to continue. ‘So, if these hydreumata
can provide sufficient water to keep a trading convoy on the road,
then presumably they might also serve to keep an army in the field.
Is that your point, Tribune?’
Turbo nodded his agreement.
‘My point exactly, Tribune Scaurus. An army that had taken
Berenike would be able to push north and take the waterline points,
and therefore be able to keep itself in the field as long as it was
supplied with food.’
‘But surely that prize will turn to dust in their hands?’ Prefect
Caesius pointed to the trading city of Myos Hormos, well to the north
of the captured Berenike. ‘After all, word will spread quickly enough,
as ships meet each other at sea and in foreign ports. Their masters
will soon know not to sail back to Berenike, but to take their cargoes
to other ports, such as this one, if they want to be paid for their
efforts?’
 ‘I’m not so sure.’ All eyes turned back to Scaurus. ‘Think it
through. Whoever it is that has Berenike in their grip will have taken
the port for a reason, and with a plan of what to do when they have
succeeded, do you not think? Nobody goes to war with Rome
without having first worked out what to do under all of the
eventualities that they can imagine. In the event of a such victory,
were I the victor, my approach would be business as usual, just
under a different rule and with a different customer. Merchants will be
encouraged to keep trading, taxes on their profits reduced or
dropped altogether to encourage them to support the new order of
things. Under such circumstances they would be likely to send out
smaller vessels to encourage their returning ship masters to make
port in Berenike as usual, rather than running north to a different
port, and to cooperate with their new rulers.’
He looked around at the officers before speaking again.
‘Make no mistake, gentlemen, this is a serious state of affairs.
That port receives a significant proportion of the total trade the
empire conducts with the eastern lands, across the ocean we call the
Erythraean Sea, does it not, Ptolemy?’
The scholar nodded knowingly.
‘There is a periplus of the trade with the east, literally a “book of
sailing around” that was written by one of my countrymen a century
ago, a denizen of Berenike itself, as it happens. It provides us with a
full description of the goods traded with other countries and cities. It
is somewhat poorly written, it has to be said, with confusion between
Greek and Latin words and some very poor grammar—’ Scaurus
raised an eyebrow, and the Aegyptian hurried on to answer the
question. ‘The port of Berenike receives trade goods such as spices
and metals from the kingdoms of the Dakinabades on the far side of
the ocean, gemstones and cloth from Ariaca, silk from Thinae and
gold mined in Gedrosia. Indeed, it is in and itself akin to a
metaphorical river of gold, a river which runs all the way from the
kingdoms of the east to Rome!’
‘Meta … what?’
The Aegyptian turned to Dubnus with a slight smile.
 ‘Metaphorical. It means that the trade routes are like a never-
ending flow of money, at least to the people who live along its banks,
so to speak.’
Dubnus opened his mouth to deliver a rebuke to the scribe,
presumably for his habitual wordiness, but Scaurus beat him to it.
‘It is a good analogy, if a little convoluted. And this is a river of gold
into which the imperial chamberlain has set up more than one
watering point for the emperor’s private finances. Which explains
why he has sent us here, and what he expects of us: nothing less
than to allow this river to continue delivering its bounty.’
He held up a scroll.
‘These, gentlemen, are my orders. And at the risk of being
tediously repetitive, this is the point at which we usually have to
waste a good deal of time arguing as to who outranks whom socially,
and, by association, who should command such a mission. It seems
that no man of any rank can bear to have his position usurped, no
matter how justifiably, without feeling the urge to fight the apparent
loss of his prestige. You, Prefect Caesius can argue, and with some
justification, that the Second Legion is yours to command. It is my
decision, however, that you would be better placed to remain here in
command of the remainder of the legion.’
Caesius inclined his head in acceptance, possibly grateful, of the
order.
‘And you, Tribune Turbo, might well be of the opinion that, in the
absence of your legion’s commander, your position as his second-in-
command, coupled with your undoubted local knowledge of the area
in question, makes you the more suitable man to lead. Which might
also be true. But before you bring out those arguments, you should
be aware of some irrefutable facts.’
The officers remained silent as he raised a finger.
‘Firstly, I carry a written and personally signed instruction,
addressed to whoever it may concern, from the imperial
chamberlain, signed and sealed in the presence of this member of
the Palatine secretariat …’ He gestured to Ptolemy. ‘Who is here for
the sole purpose of pointing out to you all that my orders are both
legal and binding on every imperial citizen in commanding you to
afford me every cooperation. I hope that’s clear enough for you but
be in no doubt that I will order your centurions to detain any man that
stands in my way. And I have no doubt that First Spear Abasi and his
officers will be unhesitating in their eagerness to follow an order from
Rome.’
He looked at Abasi, smiling tightly as the senior centurion nodded
tersely.
‘But there is another factor that I think you might want to consider
before deciding whether you want to dispute the command of this
mission with me.’ He waved a hand at his familia. ‘These men
behind me, who have gathered around me over the last few years,
all of them veterans of a dozen battles and skirmishes, share an
unenviable social status with me. We are all, gentlemen, just one
step from being exiled or executed.’
He raised a hand to forestall any questions.
‘The reasons for that looming death sentence are not material to
this discussion, and neither do I have much patience in explaining
the injustices involved to men who might struggle to even believe
them possible, so I’ll ask you simply to consider the fact of our being
subject to deep imperial opprobrium. The empire turns the sternest
of gazes upon us, even as it somewhat hypocritically demands the
fulfilment of yet another task which is likely to end in our deaths in its
service.’
‘That would seem … perverse … were it to be true.’
The Roman nodded at Turbo.
‘It would, rather. And to be clear, I have no interest whatsoever in
proving that injustice to you. Believe it, or refuse to do so, I’ve
learned that it makes no difference. My point is that I am expected to
succeed in liberating Berenike from whoever it is that has taken it
from Rome, and that if I fail I am expected not to return to Rome.
And so I ask any man who thinks that he would be better placed to
command in my place whether he feels brave enough to risk the
same fate? After all, it seems that Chamberlain Cleander has a very
personal reason for wanting the normal trade conditions re-
established as quickly as possible. Given that uncomfortable fact,
are any of you really brave enough to try taking responsibility for this
from me?’
The legion’s officers looked at each other for a moment before
Caesius replied.
‘No, Tribune Scaurus, I don’t think anyone here feels like
challenging you to drink from such a poisoned cup.’
‘As I expected. Command has a siren quality to it, until the ugly
reality of the facts behind missions like those which have been
entrusted to us of late is laid out. So, gentlemen, with that settled,
perhaps we might turn to matters of practical interest?’

‘Good evening, Tribune.’

The western gate’s centurion saluted Marcus and nodded to Cotta
as they walked along the wall overlooking the city, still clad in their
armour. Night had fallen, and Alexandria’s myriad lights pricked the
gloom, illuminating the city’s dark bulk to the degree that it was hard
to pick out from the blaze of stars against which it was silhouetted.
‘Good evening, Centurion, stand at ease.’ Marcus stared more
closely at the man in the wall’s pale torchlight. ‘I recognise you from
earlier today. You were on duty in the agora when we dealt with the
tax farmer and his men, were you not? Petosorapis?’
The other man nodded with a grim smile.
‘Yes, Tribune, although my comrades call me Peto. And you
should know that the whole fortress is buzzing about what you did.
It’s about time someone showed the scum who’ve been recruited to
collect the empire’s taxes the right way to behave! The Second
Legion’s newest recruits will be getting a hard time of it from now
until the day they manage to run away or get themselves killed.’
Cotta nodded approvingly.
‘That sad collection of goat fuckers will have realised they’ve just
stepped into the deepest shit in their miserable lives …’ He frowned
at the centurion, whose face had creased with a look of puzzlement.
‘What?’
Petosorapis shook his head.
‘It’s … nothing. Just something you said that sounded familiar.’
The older man shrugged, grinning at the other man’s discomfiture.
 ‘Happens to me all the time. You talk to enough men, then over
the years you’re going to hear something that takes you back to a
different time.’
‘Yes …’ The Aegyptian nodded slowly. ‘I suppose you’re right. It
just had the feeling of words I’d heard before though.’
A soldier strode up, saluting and addressing him in an urgent tone.
‘Begging your pardon, Centurion, the chosen man sent me to find
you. He’s found two men—’
‘Thank you, legionary.’ Petosorapis overrode the man before
whatever crime he had detected became public knowledge. ‘I
presume he has them both in the guardhouse?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Very good. On your way, and if you want to avoid an
uncomfortable encounter with my vine stick you’ll keep this to
yourself, whatever it is. Understood?’
‘Sir! Yes, sir!’
The soldier bolted away, and his centurion shook his head in
disgust.
‘My apologies, Tribune. No matter how well you watch them, the
bastards always find a way to upset the apple cart.’
Marcus waved a dismissive hand.
‘Of course, Centurion, no apology needed. I’ve stood in your boots
in my time, and wondered just what it is that motivates some men to
such acts of idiocy.’
Petosorapis strode away with the legionary trailing in his wake,
and Marcus turned to his friend with a knowing expression.
‘That looked like a close call to me, even if I didn’t quite know what
was happening?’
‘I do.’ Cotta shook his head in disgust. ‘I realised what I’d done the
moment the words were out of my mouth.’
‘Which was what, exactly? Is this something to do with your killing
Avidius Cassius?’
The veteran centurion sighed.
‘I’ve always tried to keep the details to myself. Like I said on the
ship, when that idiot scribe reminded me of the whole bloody affair,
you kill one false emperor’ – he shot his friend a rueful grin – ‘and no
matter how stupid the bastard was in allowing his centurions to
drape him with purple, no matter how righteous your orders, then
you’re marked for life.’
He shook his head, sighing at the memory.
‘I’ve never discussed it with you, as much to protect you as from a
desire not even to think about it ever again. Thirteen years ago, this
mob and my own legion were camped down in the delta, in the
aftermath of the herdsmen revolting. They started cutting the guts
out of Roman officers and cooking them up for their dinners, or at
least that was the story we were told. Which is why the rules about
no senators being allowed in the province went straight out of the
window, and the empire’s biggest-balled legion commander was
given imperium, blessed with the title “Supreme Commander of the
Orient”, and sent in to teach them a lesson. The emperor clearly
thought he could trust the man to renounce that absolute power once
it was all done with.’
‘This was the uprising of the boukoloi?’
‘Yes. We put them down hard too, mainly due to Cassius being
such a bright lad. He sowed a few lies and turned those country boys
against each other, and the whole revolt just seemed to collapse in
the space of a few weeks. Which was just as well, because there
were a lot more of them than there were of us. But then, of course,
his cleverness got the better of him, like it does with most of those
fools that crave power. Marcus Aurelius was dead of some sickness
or other, or so we heard, and when the inevitable pack of idiot
centurions decided to put him on a throne he was stupid enough to
actually let them do it. And I was the mug who got picked to take him
off it, when word arrived that the emperor wasn’t dead after all.’
‘Who was doing the picking?’
‘My legatus. Seems he’d been put in command of the Third mainly
to keep a careful eye on Cassius.’
Marcus nodded.
‘The last emperor was nobody’s fool. And his man on the spot’s
choice of assassins was impeccable.’
Cotta spat over the wall.
 ‘He fucked me every bit as efficiently as a bolt thrower at twenty
paces. I went from the life of a centurion, with a decent chance of
making it to first spear given time, to being an outcast. The legatus
gave me a bag of gold and cordially advised to me to piss off double
quick, get my head down and keep it down. Except that men who
murder emperors, even idiot pretenders, don’t tend to have that
luxury. This lot, Trajan’s Valiant Second Legion, tried to kill me twice
in the first few years.’
He smiled wryly, his teeth agleam in the torchlight.
‘No good deed goes unpunished, right? I took a handful of my
closest mates back to Rome with me when I left, after putting
Cassius’s head on my legatus’s desk, to avoid them paying the price
for my crime. But word of where I was to be found got back to this lot
soon enough, probably down to my friends’ incessant bragging about
what a big man I was to anyone that would listen when they’d had a
few. Which meant I spent all my time looking over my shoulder, and
being ready to deal with the men who were sent to take revenge on
me for spoiling their dreams of being rich soldiers. I saw it coming, of
course, and set up my own little army of ex-soldiers under the
disguise of a bodyguarding business, and spread plenty of money
around to make sure that anyone asking questions was given
answers that made them take risks to get to me. And each time I
stopped the wind of a fresh party of would-be killers, I sent their
heads back here, along with the message that they were wasting
their time, their gold and their blood. Eventually the bastards seemed
to take the hint and stopped trying. But now that we’re here …’
‘All it takes is for one man to recognise you.’
‘Exactly. And what I just did there was a big mistake.’ The older
man shook his head disgustedly. ‘I remember Centurion Petosorapis
well enough, and what I said to him thirteen years ago, when I was
fronting up to a guard post that stood between me and my legion,
and me with their emperor’s head in a bag. He was just a watch
officer then, which made it easy enough to stare him down and be on
my way with nobody any the wiser, but you can be sure they made
the connection as soon as my name got round the camp. And it’ll
probably only be a matter of time before he remembers what it is
that’s nagging at his memory.’
‘I see.’ Marcus thought for a moment. ‘I think all we can do is bluff
it out, in the event that he makes the connection. Just deny all
knowledge of whatever it is he thinks he knows, and in the end it’ll be
forgotten. After all …’
A moment in the gloom below them caught his attention, and he
leaned over the wall.
‘Is that …’
Cotta followed his pointing hand.
‘That Christian who was following us earlier? I think it is. And he’s
not alone either.’
A small group of robed figures were gathered at the side of the
road that led from the fortress’s western gate to the city, close
enough to be dimly discernible in the light of the torches blazing
along its rampart, and additionally illuminated by the flickering flame
of a brand held by one of them.
‘They’re worshipping? In public?’
Cotta nodded.
‘You get used to it. There isn’t very much of it in Rome, not that
you see in public, but here the bastards are shameless. It’ll be one of
their rites. Not only are they superstitious, talking about a dead man
getting up and walking around, but they get up to all sorts of filth.’
Marcus stared down at the huddled knot of men.
‘They look harmless enough.’
‘They do now, but you only have to listen to them, the animals.
They’re cannibals, and worse, they practise incest as well.’
‘Ah. You may find that you’ve been somewhat misled on those
topics.’ Cotta stared at Marcus with the look of a man unwilling to be
parted from his beliefs. ‘Come on, let’s go and have a look, shall
we?’
‘What?’
The Roman laughed softly at his friend.
‘They’re not flesh-eaters, they just have a rather individual
approach to religion. One they continue to practise despite all the
warnings they’ve had on the matter. Come on!’
 The chosen man commanding the gate sentries insisted on
accompanying the two men out into the darkness, ignoring Cotta’s
protests that they were more than capable of looking after
themselves in the face of any threat a few underfed-looking religious
perverts might have to offer.
‘All I know is that if anything happens to either of you two
gentlemen it’ll be me bent over a post for a fucking good scourging.
Sir.’
The two men strolled out into the night with a handful of men
behind them, their spears held ready in unmistakable threat, closing
to within a few paces of the huddled figures before stopping. Marcus
raised his empty hands as he addressed the group.
‘My apologies for disturbing your worship. Please ignore the
armed men behind us, they simply seek to ensure our safety.’
Demetrius stepped out of their midst, clearly untroubled by the
threat of the legionaries’ weapons.
‘To be a Christian, Tribune, is to make the decision never again to
allow oneself to worry about the potential dangers of following the
one true path. Were one of your soldiers to pierce me with his spear
and take my life, he would simply be sending me to join the Christos
in heaven, where my judgement awaits me.’
Marcus smiled at the man’s transparent belief in what he was
saying.
‘That must be helpful, when pursuing a faith that puts you at odds
with the empire’s rules of what is seemly in a religion.’
Demetrius shrugged.
‘Our faith does not seek to threaten Rome, Tribune, but rather to
make her stronger in the worship of the one true God, and the
inherent justice of that state of mind for all men. But I do not believe
you came down here to be converted, did you? Your time is not yet
here, I feel.’
‘Nor will it ever be. There is too much of the fanatic to your beliefs
for my taste, too much appealing to the common man in shameless
proselytism. I fear for a world with only one god, whose demands are
interpreted by men whose authority will be absolute. Your Christos
might be the most beneficent of deities, but I have seen enough of
human nature to be less than convinced that his priests will
necessarily follow his teachings. The priests of Ahura Mazda in
Parthia, men whose baleful influence I have seen at close quarters,
perpetually struggle for power against the men who lead the king’s
army. They seek to control their king, and through him the kingdom.’
Marcus smiled and shook his head. ‘Imagine an empire as powerful
as Rome, but led by a man susceptible to the urgings of the priests
of a single god.’
Demetrius nodded, his face creasing into a similar smile.
‘I can imagine such a thing, but I do not view it with fear. Quite the
opposite.’
‘And so there we find our fundamental difference. You wish to
unite the world under the priesthood of one god, whereas I would
fight against such a thing to my last breath.’
The Greek inclined his head respectfully.
‘And yet you too will come to see the justice and glory of our faith,
Tribune, given time. You will bow your head to the Christos, and his
father, the one true God.’
‘We shall see.’ Marcus gestured to the darkness, and the stiff
breeze that was dragging the flame of their torch away from its pitch-
soaked head at a right angle. ‘What is it that you are doing here, you
and your brothers? You were advised to return to the city and go
about your life, and yet here you are in this inhospitable place.’
The Christian gestured to the knot of his fellow believers clustered
behind him.
‘Not just my brothers, Tribune. My sisters in the Christos have also
joined me, to say farewell before my journey, and to share with me
the body and blood of Our Lord.’
Marcus frowned.
‘Ignoring the foolishness of your apparently barefaced declarations
of incest and cannibalism, which we both know are at the root of
Rome’s distrust of your faith, what journey? Where is it that you think
you are going?’
Demetrius extended a hand into the darkness, pointing to the
south.
 ‘I will go wherever you go, Centurion, and I will follow you until
such time as the purpose of my calling becomes clear to me.’
‘No. You cannot accompany us. My commander will not allow it,
for one thing, and we will not feed you, nor allow you to share our
camp.’
The Greek smiled broadly, his teeth a flash of white in the
torchlight.
‘My blessings on you for providing such a clear warning of the
hardships to come. And yet were you to have counselled me that the
road ahead was winding, hemmed in by thorns, parched and beset
by hunger, I would still be required to take it.’ He rubbed at the thick,
greasy wool of an outer garment that had evidently been provided by
his brethren. ‘My cloak will suffice for shelter, and I carry enough coin
to feed myself for months, if I eat frugally.’
‘And what if you encounter robbers, on the road?’
‘Well then, there is this.’ Demetrius pulled his cloak aside and
patted the hilt of the short sword concealed beneath it. ‘I am no
stranger to the use of a blade, indeed before my conversion I was
the strongest adherent you can imagine of its primacy in the affairs
of man. If the unworthy attempt to deflect me from my path, I will not
hesitate to use it to defend myself, and in as forceful a manner as
needed to preserve my service to my God.’ He grinned at Marcus’s
surprised expression. ‘Did you think that I was some sort of pacifist,
Tribune? The Christos did indeed teach his followers to turn the
other cheek in the face of aggression, when he spoke on the mount,
but sometimes the older teachings of the Hebrews are right. I will
absorb all and any insult, endure abuse and even casual blows, from
those who do not know better, but when the time comes that my
purpose in this life is threatened, then I will smite the unbeliever and
leave them to the mercies of Our Lord when he comes to
judgement!’
‘There you go …’ Cotta leaned close to Marcus and muttered in
his ear. ‘Just another religious maniac. What did I tell you?’
‘And, ignoring the wilder accusations of those around you …’
Demetrius flashed an undaunted smile at Cotta. ‘In truth, you cannot
stop me from following your path. A body of legionaries will hardly be
difficult to follow. Unless you choose to nail me to a cross and leave
me to God, of course. And I do not see that sort of cruelty present
itself here, not in you, Centurion, and neither in your superior. And
you may trust me when I tell you that I am very much an expert in
the expression of physical cruelty. But now, if you will excuse me, I
must complete the ceremony that I have begun, with my brothers
and sisters. There is bread and wine to be blessed, and the
guidance of Our Lord to be sought once the physical needs of this
fragile shell have been satisfied.’
Marcus looked up at the sky.
‘There is cloud drawing in, from the north. It may rain later.’
‘In which case it seems likely that I will get wet. But the sun is
never absent from our sky for long, Tribune, and when it re-emerges
I will dry out again. Such is the way of things, as I learned a long
time ago, and in much the same way that you did.’
‘Very well. I see that you are set on this course, and that only
physical restraint will prevent you from following us to wherever it is
that we are going.’
The Christian shook his head.
‘Not even that, Tribune. You could bind me, that is true, but
another man would take my place. Perhaps less hardy, perhaps less
resourceful, but one of us will follow you, no matter how many others
you detained. And when, upon the road, that individual was set upon
by the bandits you warned me about, and was less able to defend
himself than I, his death would be on your conscience. And, I must
add, noted for your judgement, when the time comes for you to stand
before Our Lord and account for your sins.’
‘You have it all worked out, I see.’
Demetrius smiled.
‘I have the certainty of true faith, Centurion. It burns brightly in me
and inspires all that I do. You should try opening yourself to the
teachings of the Christos, and enjoy his radiance in your soul.’
Marcus turned to Cotta with a wry grin.
‘It seems that you were right. Religious fanaticism conquers
common sense every time. Come on, let’s go and find something hot
to eat.’
 ‘You do not intend to hamper me in my holy task?’
The Roman turned back to regard Demetrius levelly.
‘It will be for my tribune to decide, not me. But for my part, given
what I believe we will be marching towards, if you lack the wit to
comprehend the risk you’re taking, then there’s little that I can do
other than to afford you a decent burial, when the time comes.’
 5

‘I’m obliged to admit, it’s been a while since I’ve seen a legion as
well drilled and turned out.’
Cotta raised a jaundiced eyebrow at Marcus’s observation.
‘Trajan’s Valiant Second always was shiny. The problem with them
was that they were also shy.’
‘You are saying they were …’
Qadir paused, uncertain how to phrase the criticism, and his friend
pounced with the speed of long practice.
‘Scared of a fight? Liable to move backwards in the face of the
enemy?’ Cotta stared across the parade ground at the neatly turned
out soldiers marching across the flat surface under the watchful eye
of First Spear Abasi. ‘Yes, I am. Their spearheads might have been
polished to a mirror finish, but they shook so badly when they took to
the field that it looked like an imperial message relay tower with the
crew working double time.’
‘You might not want to allow those views to be overheard,
Centurion.’ Scaurus had approached from behind them,
unannounced, a smile wreathing his lips at his officer’s bitter
condemnation of the men parading before them. ‘I doubt that our
colleagues would be all that delighted to be described as lacking
backbone, and they were, let us remember, awarded the title Fortis
for their defence of Alexandria during the revolt of the boukoloi, were
they not?’
Cotta shook his head, raising his eyebrows to indicate that he had
expected better from his superior.
‘There was face to be saved, Tribune. When the peasants ran
amok across the delta, slaughtering every soldier and official they
could get their hands on, this lot just locked themselves up in the city
and left them to it.’
‘And withstood a siege that lasted several months.’
The veteran centurion shrugged, unimpressed.
‘Standing steadfastly behind the city’s walls against a mob armed
with pitchforks and scythes. With enough grain in the city’s
warehouses to feed them for years. It’s not my definition of the word
fortis, with all due respect, sir.’
Scaurus smiled and kept his own counsel, recognising from long
experience the tone and inflection of a centurion, a class of men he
knew only too well to never knowingly be in the wrong, who was
obdurate in his opinion. Marcus exchanged an amused glance with
his superior before breaking the slightly awkward silence that had
resulted.
‘What do you think of their first spear? I suspect that Julius would
be doing that thing he does when faced with another warrior king at
this very moment, were he here.’
Cotta guffawed, forgetting his enmity for the Second Legion.
‘That thing where he leans back, puffs out his chest, puts his
hands on his hips and stares down his nose at the other man?’
‘Exactly. They seem as alike as two peas in the pod to me.’
The veteran officer nodded, pursing his lips judiciously.
‘Yes, I see the resemblance, for all that Abasi is somewhat darker
of skin and more economical with his language. He has that same
swagger about him, and the look of a man whose subordinates really
don’t want to disappoint.’
With the last of his cohorts in place, the ritual shouting of orders
and close, intimidatory supervision of their ranks by glowering
centurions completed, and the whole formation standing in perfect
silence under the morning’s sunshine, Abasi marched briskly across
to where Scaurus was standing and snapped to attention, saluting
punctiliously.
‘The Second Legion is ready for war, Tribune.’
Scaurus took his measure for a moment, nodding his satisfaction
at the man’s pugnacious declaration of his cohorts’ readiness, then
strolled forward to survey the ranks of men awaiting his command.
 ‘You are to be complimented for putting the legion on the road in
so short a time, First Spear. And your cohorts appear to be at their
establishment strength. All legionaries are fully equipped as per
regulations, all carrying two days’ rations? Their boots are freshly
nailed? Every tent party has checked their gear, repairs have been
made and new equipment issued where necessary?’
He gestured to the lines of carts neatly lined up to one side of the
parade ground, their teams of donkeys prevented from making any
of the usual braying protests by the judicious application of their
morning feed.
‘The legion artillery, rations, tents and animal fodder are all correct,
all pack animals are present and ready for the road?’
Abasi nodded confidently.
‘They are, Tribune, and so’ – he added, anticipating the inevitable
follow-up question – ‘are the cohorts we’re leaving to control the city.’
He leaned closer to the Roman and lowered his voice to make what
he was about to say private. ‘There are no non-existent soldiers on
my legion’s payroll.’
Scaurus nodded, meeting the other man’s direct stare.
‘As it should be, First Spear. And as it will need to be, over the
next few months. I hope your men are as well drilled with their
weapons as they are smartly turned out?’
Abasi turned to look back at his cohorts.
‘The legion practises with weapons every morning for four hours.
And marches the daily distance three times a week.’ His face
creased into a faint smile. ‘Sometimes twice that.’
Scaurus nodded, raising an eyebrow at Cotta before speaking
again.
‘Your men must regard you as a hard taskmaster, First Spear. I’d
imagine that some of those training marches must see you back on
this parade ground well after darkness has fallen?’
Abasi shrugged.
‘They are ready for war. I have sworn never to permit anything
else as long as I carry this.’
He raised a vine stick unlike no other that Marcus had ever seen,
its ends capped with riveted gold ferrules that gleamed softly in the
morning sun.
‘Your badge of office is a piece of craftsmanship, First Spear.’
Abasi turned to face him with a hard smile, offering the stick for
inspection.
‘The legion’s centurions compete for this trophy once a year,
Centurion Corvus. I have held it for the past nine years.’
‘I see.’
Turbo was the first to speak in the resulting awkward silence.
‘And now you’re wondering how it can be possible for any such
competition to be fair, aren’t you, Tribulus Corvus? Even if it’s too
early in your relationship to say so to his face.’
Marcus inclined his head in acceptance of the point.
‘You raise a fair point, Tribune.’
‘I had the same doubt as to such a competition’s honesty,
obviously, when I first arrived. But my cynical expectations of some
bias in the award of this prize were soon disproved. The Second’s
centurions hold a boxing tournament for the honour of carrying that
bauble, and I can assure you that there isn’t one of them who would
give that contest anything less than their best. Abasi oversees the
fights himself, with the exception of his own bouts, and in deciding
who will fight whom in each successive round, he always contrives to
meet the most effective competitors on his way to the final. He has, I
can assure you, battered the biggest and nastiest of his officers for
the right to carry that stick, and taken his share of their return blows.
That’s why they call him “Sese”.’
‘Sese?’
‘It means “vanquisher” in the Aegyptian language, does not, First
Spear Abasi?’
The big centurion nodded, his expression unchanged, neither
embarrassed nor displaying any hint of pride.
‘It does, Tribune.’
Turbo grinned.
‘His men love him, Tribune Corvus. They worship the ground he
walks on. He submits them to more hardship than any other legion in
the empire, I’m guessing, and yet they regard him as some sort of
warrior king. I’ve heard men say they’d die for him in a heartbeat,
and sound deadly serious in the promise.’
‘You are a throwback to harder days, it seems, First Spear.’
Abasi shrugged expressionlessly at Scaurus’s comment.
‘This legion disgraced itself during the uprising. We were rescued
from a mob of peasants by legions from other provinces. And our
general was murdered in our own camp.’
‘Avidius Cassius? The man was an imperial pretender, was he
not? Surely his life was forfeit, and his fate earned?’
Abasi shook his head.
‘The legatus was misadvised.’ He shook his head. ‘But, regardless
of his murder’s imperial sanction, I have sworn an oath to Mars
never to see such ignominy fall upon the legion again. Not while I
have breath in my body.’
‘And so you have made the Second over in your own likeness.’
‘Not in my image. That of Hercules, the demi-god who will be the
legion’s inspiration long after I have gone to the dust. I simply
provide my legionaries with an understanding of their part in
achieving that glory. And now that the time has come for battle, I do
not intend to miss the chance to fight. Who knows when it might
come again?’
‘Who indeed?’ Scaurus gestured to the paraded soldiers. ‘In which
case, First Spear, I suggest we get on the move. How far can your
men march?’
‘Thirty miles a day, Tribune. And every day, as long we don’t dig
out a marching camp at night?’
Scaurus considered the point.
‘Is there a need, while we’re still in the Nilus’s delta? I presume
that the peasants are unlikely to revolt again?’
The centurion shook his head.
‘The plague that came back from Parthia with the army reduced
the population so much that most villages are hard pressed simply to
feed themselves.’
‘Aegyptus was as hard hit by the plague as the rest of the empire?’
‘Worse. One in three people who were taken sick died, and most
men were infected. No repeat of the uprising is likely.’
 Scaurus nodded.
‘Very well, we will proceed south without the use of marching
camps, at least until we reach Koptos. Although we will assume a
military posture on the march from the start.’ He turned to Turbo,
who had been appointed to lead the legion cavalry as a means of
softening the blow of his apparent demotion. ‘Your horsemen are to
lead the march, Tribune, and ensure that the road is clear of civilian
traffic as we pass. I don’t want to find myself held up behind ox carts,
given the prodigious pace I believe First Spear Abasi’s men will
prove capable of achieving.’

‘That’s it. I’m spent.’

Dubnus looked up at Marcus from his place by their fire, bone-dry
cordage burning brightly in the near total darkness of the Second
Legion’s camp. The night was illuminated by the dozens of fires that
dotted the ground on which the cohorts had set up camp for the
night, the ridges of their tents forming black triangles against the
blaze of stars above the resting soldiers. The countryside around
them was silent apart from the occasional distant bray of a donkey,
and the fitful barking of farm dogs.
‘I’m serious. I think that march might have broken me.’ The Briton
winced, stretching out his legs gingerly and rubbing his calves. ‘Quite
how these bastards manage to look so cheerful after reeling off a
thirty miler in that heat is beyond me. It’s been as hot as the best
summer day I can recall in Britannia …’ He paused and stretched his
arms out, grimacing at the tension in the muscles. ‘Although at least
the nights are cool enough.’
‘That heat was actually quite mild, for Aegyptus.’ Cotta smirked at
him from the other side of the fire, leaning back against his pack.
‘After all, it’s only spring. Wait until we get further south, and into the
desert. It can be so hot in the summer that you can literally cook an
egg in your helmet, if you leave it in the sun for a few minutes first,
and even at night it never gets cold enough for a man to need to
sleep under his cloak.’
‘Bullshit!’
The veteran smiled knowingly at Dubnus’s disbelief.
 ‘I know, it seems impossible. Just you wait and see. No cloud, you
see? There’s nothing to stop the sunlight in the day, so it just beats
down without any respite, until a man would give a month’s pay for a
cloudy day. And there’s no water for hundreds of miles, other than
what we can take from springs and cisterns. Give it a month and
you’ll see that the most important thing in your life will stop being that
axe you cuddle up to every night, and start being your water bottle.’
‘He’s right.’ Turbo appeared out of the darkness with Centurion
Petosorapis at his back. ‘Forgive my butting in, I’m just doing my
rounds of the camp before I turn in and leave Peto here to keep the
guards on their toes, not that they need much encouragement given
the punishment Abasi has said he’ll inflict on any man caught
sleeping. Mind if we join you for a moment?’
The Tungrians made space for him, and he grunted with pleasure
at the fire’s warmth.
‘In two weeks’ time – because that’s all it will take at the pace we
kept up all day today – we’ll have left the delta behind us and be will
into the interior. And the desert is unlike anything you’ll ever have
seen.’
‘We’ve seen wastelands, Tribune.’
‘Not like this.’ Turbo shook his head emphatically. ‘Bare rock and
windblown sand, without any water other than what comes out of a
spring or a well that reaches a hundred feet or more into the ground.
Which means no vegetation. At all. Military action will be a
fascinating thing, I suspect, more like a game of robbers than
anything you might be used to.’
‘We’ve already played that game, on the grasslands of Parthia.’
Marcus stood, turning to look out into the darkness. ‘Without trees
there can be no hiding place, if an enemy scouts with sufficient
thoroughness. Which, as you suspect, will turn war into a long,
devious series of manoeuvres to gain the advantage. So what do we
know of the enemy we will face across this empty land?’
‘Assuming that Blemmyes are responsible for the capture of
Berenike?’
‘It seems from everything that I have read, and from the opinions
of our man of letters, that they are the most likely adversary? Are not
the people of the far south only a shadow of their former martial
abilities?’
‘Such is the received wisdom. I have never laid eyes on a man of
the city of Meroë, which makes it hard for me to have an opinion. But
I can tell you what I was told by Prefect Servius.’ Marcus nodded.
‘Meroë is the latest ruling city of an ancient kingdom called Kush,
which at one time grew so powerful that it came to dominate
Aegyptus as well as the territory to its south. And this at much the
same time that Rome was little more than a village on the Palatine
Hill. The rulers of Aegyptus were black-skinned men from the south,
it seems. They were eventually driven out by the Assyrians, and
settled back into their homelands, which are rich in both high-quality
stone for building and gold, and have the water and wood needed for
the smelting of iron traded with the kingdoms across the Erythraean
Sea to the east. Indeed the name the Aegyptians have given the
land to their south, Nubia, is derived from their word for gold, nu. By
quarrying and trading these resources they have retained their
position in the world, and resisted even the advance of the empire.
So now we trade with them, a relationship so obviously beneficial to
both parties that Servius thought any war with them most unlikely.’
‘They are a peaceful people?’
Turbo shrugged.
‘I do not know, but the kingdom is, he told me, not only ruled over
by kings, but, on occasion, by women. If the prince in question is not
yet old enough to rule, then his mother will take the throne, using the
title “Kandake” to indicate her position. And any kingdom ruled by a
woman is hardly likely to seek war with an empire like Rome.’
Dubnus grunted his disagreement.
‘You have clearly never travelled to Britannia, Tribune. My tribe,
the Brigantes, were ruled by a woman a hundred years ago, at much
the same time as another queen led her tribe in revolt against Rome
and burned out more than one city. Never underestimate the fury of
a woman, if you give her both power and the reason to use it.’
Turbo smiled at the Briton’s gloomy tone.
‘I see your point, Centurion, although I was attempting to point out
that most women have more sense than to start wars they must
know are unwinnable. Unlike the multitude of kings that Rome has
been obliged to put in their place, over the centuries.’
‘And the Blemmyes? What sort of people are they?’
Turbo shrugged.
‘They are a tribe of desert dwellers, used to hardships, a widely
distributed people whose dispersion makes them hard to rule. I
found their king to be a welcoming and civilised man, even if the
more easterly of his people do sometimes prey on our trade routes.’
‘Although any scholar will tell you that they are also a race of
monsters.’
‘Really?’ Dubnus perked up noticeably with Ptolemy’s prim
statement. ‘Monsters? What sort of monsters? I hope your
description will be of something whose head would look good nailed
to a roof timber?’
The Aegyptian shook his head.
‘If heads are what you seek, then the Blemmyes will leave you
severely disappointed. Their heads, you see, are non-existent.’
‘What? How can a man not have a head?’
‘By having his mouth, nose and eyes in his chest, Centurion.’
Marcus exchanged glances with Turbo, who shook his head in
baffled amusement but said nothing.
‘Bullshit! Just when I thought you might be starting to be some use
there, you go to spoil my improving opinion of you. And besides,
what would you know of such things, Scribe?’
Ptolemy bristled at Dubnus’s disparaging tone.
‘This, of course, is where the man of letters has an advantage over
the man who relies solely upon the evidence of his eyes for his
understanding of the world. The Blemmyes, as we may well
discover, are akephaloi. By which I mean, of course, men without
faces. The existence of such a people was first described by the
Greek philosopher, Herodotus, five hundred years ago and more.’
‘And this Greek saw such people with his own eyes?’
‘No, as a scholar unable to travel the entire length and breadth of
the world he was forced to depend upon the accounts of those who
had seen those benighted people. His assertion of their existence
was supported, however, by the learned geographer Mela, who
called them Blemyae, and by Pliny, whose Natural History describes
them in just the same way. And these are learned men, Centurion,
not to be questioned by the likes of you …’ He flinched at the sudden
intensity of the Briton’s glare. ‘Or I, for that matter.’
‘And did any of these other learned men, whose feet I am clearly
not fit to wash, actually see these creatures with their own eyes? Or
were they too, I wonder, merely informed of them, perhaps by men
they paid well to provide the description?’
‘Your tone, Centurion, implies disbelief?’
‘Too fucking right it does!’ The Briton shook his head in total
refusal to accept his swordsmanship pupil’s story. ‘One philosopher
accepts a story about something he’s never seen, and then another
pair of equally “too educated to travel” scribblers copy that story,
simply because they’re too lazy to get off their arses and go and see
for themselves! All it takes then is for men like you to bow down at
the mention of their names, and accept it all as the truth. And
where’s the real truth in all this?’ He pointed a hand out into the
darkness to the south. ‘Out there! Along with men, before you
mention it, with the heads of dogs and every other piece of nonsense
ever written that says a man has anything other than two legs, two
arms and one normal fucking head!’
He turned to Turbo.
‘Tell me, Tribune, did you ever see any of these monsters on your
travels?’
The Roman shook his head with a look of regret.
‘Sadly, Centurion, I did not.’
‘But that does not disprove the writings of the ancient
philosophers! Surely the tribe would be likely to keep such a creature
out of sight from the casual visitor? Herodotus was clearly informed
by men with a better familiarity with the tribe, who were able to see
behind that veil of secrecy.’
Dubnus shook his head in disgust and got to his feet.
‘I give up. There seems to be no mind as closed as that which has
too much education. But there is one benefit to all this rubbish,
however, which is that it’s given me the need to empty my bowels.’
 Staring out into the night after him, Ptolemy shook his head in
apparent sadness.
‘A shame.’
‘What is?’
The Aegyptian smiled ruefully at Marcus’s question.
‘Such an independent thinker, and yet so opposed to the works of
great men, whose skill with words may never again be matched.’
The Roman shrugged, resisting the temptation to grin at his
slightly pompous tone.
‘Make the most of the opportunity to learn from him, Ptolemy.
Perhaps something more than simple swordplay will rub off on you?’
He stood looking out into the darkness at a lonely fire burning fifty
paces away.
‘I see our Christian managed to keep up throughout the day’s
exertions. Which means, I presume, that he wasn’t exaggerating
when he described himself as having some form of military training.’
‘What difference would that make, Centurion? Either a man can
walk this distance or he cannot, I would have th—’
‘The difference, Ptolemy, lies not here …’ Marcus pointed at his
feet. ‘But rather here.’
He tapped his head, and Ptolemy raised his hands in bafflement.
‘The secret of marching lies in the head? But surely it is the feet
and legs which become conditioned?’
‘You might think that, if you’d spent the day lolling listlessly on the
back of a donkey and wondering what all the fuss is. As was your
good fortune, given that we knew all too well that neither your legs
nor your head would have been fit for the purpose of a thirty-mile
march.’ The scribe accepted Marcus’s acerbic comment with a show
of good grace, inclining his head in a solemn signal for the centurion
to continue. ‘That man out there will be in pain, most likely soaking
his feet in a ditch to wash away the blood. His feet will have
blistered, and the blisters then burst and bled, because years of
relatively easy treatment will have allowed the callouses of dead skin
that protect men accustomed to marching to have worn away. But,
and this is my point, he is a man unlike anyone who has never
marched such a distance before, sometimes without any fire or food
at the end of the day. Because at dawn tomorrow he will get up, put
his boots back on and march on behind us, ignoring the pain in his
feet and the aching of his legs. Because he knows, deep inside him,
that these discomforts are both irrelevant to what he has determined
he must do. And that, given a few days of marching, they will pass.
That Christian, Scribe, is a soldier of his god. And he is prepared to
suffer for his beliefs.’

‘I’m not sure I’m ever going to adapt to the Second Legion’s
ferocious appetite for covering ground.’ Scaurus grimaced at the
stiffness in his legs. ‘I’d hoped that by three days into the march
south I’d be starting to come to terms with it, but it seems as if my
legs are going to be protesting all the way to Koptos.’
From his place on a donkey behind the marching Tungrians,
Ptolemy, unusually quiet in the wake of his disagreement with
Dubnus even two days after the event, ventured an opinion that
made the Romans turn and look back at him in bafflement.
‘From my elevated position, Tribune, I am happy to inform you that
you will very shortly see something that will banish all thoughts of
physical discomfort. Instead, your mind will find itself reeling in
amazement at the sights, the glorious edifices that are about to
reveal themselves to you.’
He fell silent again, refusing to comment further but simply
commending the party to be attentive to the southern horizon. After a
further mile of marching, Lugos, by far the tallest of the party, called
attention to something only he could see.
‘Is something on horizon. It is triangle, like top of monument in
Rome, but …’ He fell silent momentarily before continuing, his tone
thoughtful. ‘It not on horizon, but far away. Which mean …’
‘That it is very tall indeed?’
The Briton turned to look at Ptolemy, whose gaze towards the
object was close to reverential.
‘Yes. What is?’
The scribe smiled.
‘It is a pyramid, a man-made structure that took thousands of
craftsmen twenty years to build. There are many of them in my
country, and that one is the pyramid of the Great King, his final
resting place. I will tell you all that I know of it, although that might
not be enough to satisfy your curiosity. But first let us simply enjoy
the pleasure of discovery as the object in question – and those
around it – come into clearer view?’
The legion’s unrelenting progress brought the pyramid closer
through the late afternoon, and with every mile covered, the true size
of the colossal monument became clearer to the Tungrians, as the
sun began to dip lower in the sky to silhouette its other-worldly
shape.
‘I hadn’t realised that we would reach it so soon.’
Ptolemy shot Scaurus a disbelieving glance.
‘You are aware of the pyramids?’
‘Of course.’ The Roman smiled back at him tightly. ‘My tutor was a
Greek, and he insisted on attempting to make a philosopher of me,
despite both my own and my birth family’s lack of interest in my
becoming an academic. My mother was already dead, having
expired giving birth to me, and my father’s sister was too consumed
with grief at his loss in Germania to care very much about me. And
so I was allowed to run wild, more or less, without any education
other than that delivered by the fists of the local street children.’
‘How did he die?’
Scaurus raised an eyebrow.
‘There’s that ever-demanding need to know the facts of any
matter, eh, Scribe? If you must know, he killed himself by falling on
his sword. He had taken upon himself, in the absence of any other
officer feeling any culpability, responsibility for the loss of a fortress
he had been ordered to relieve without also being afforded the
necessary resources with which to do so. And so it was, that after
several years in the miserable existence that followed, being in a
household but not part of one, I was taken under the wing of a
senator of note and afforded an education somewhat better than I
deserved. Part of which was a thorough grounding in the world’s
seven wonders, none of which I ever expected to see in this life. And
yet there it is, refuting that expectation. The Great Pyramid of
Suphis, in all its glory.’
 ‘Suphis?’ Ptolemy looked startled. ‘You surprise me, Tribune. Until
this moment I had yet to meet a Roman who did not use the Greek
name for the pyramid’s builder.’
‘I was taught not to refer to the Pharaoh as Kheops, but by his
actual name, Suphis. My tutor was a genuine philosopher, proud of
the depth of his learning, and for all that he was a Greek, he would
never use the Hellenised term for a man whose true name was
known. He had me read your countryman Manetho’s “Dynasties of
the Gods”, in which the author insisted on using the king’s real
name, and not that distorted by thousands of years of historical
interpretation.’
They stared at the magnificent structure, now less than a mile
distant, the cladding of white marble facing stones that made its
sides almost impossibly smooth coloured a rosy pink by the
descending sun, and Ptolemy leaned forward across his mount’s
neck, lowering his voice reverentially.
‘Truly awesome, is it not, Centurion Dubnus? It is almost five
hundred feet high, built from millions of blocks of limestone each as
large as an ox cart, each one quarried far from here and delivered by
boat, then manhandled into place over the decades. It is the tallest
structure built by man in the world, and surely by far the most
magnificent.’
‘For once, Scribe …’ The Briton stared up at the looming edifice. ‘I
am forced to agree with you.’
‘And consider this …’ The Aegyptian continued his lecture, more
than a hint of pride creeping into his voice. ‘This mighty construction
was built over two thousand years ago, at a time when your people
of the north were still living in huts built from reeds and mud.’
His moment of quiet admiration shattered by the scribe’s
triumphalism, Dubnus barked a terse laugh.
‘For one thing, scribbler, the halls my tribe lived in were built with
the trunks of trees, every bit as hard to move and lift as blocks of
stone. And for another, you can be grateful that there are oceans
between my people and yours, because while your ancestors were
preoccupied building a house of stone, mine would have been into
them with sword, spear and axe to make them all slaves, not just the
army of workers that must have been required to build such a thing!’
Silence fell over the party, Ptolemy sitting erect on his donkey with
the look of an affronted man, while Dubnus grinned broadly at the
offence the Aegyptian had taken to what had been, he considered, a
reasonably run-of-the-mill put-down. The legion stopped to camp for
the night in the shadow of the largest of the three pyramids, and, as
Scaurus had expected, his familia were quick to abandon the fire
once lit, leaving a protesting pair of soldiers to keep it fed and stir the
pot in which their evening meal was stewing, Dubnus firing a piece of
advice over his shoulder at them as he walked away.
‘And if that pot smells of piss when we get back, I’ll use the badge
on it to emboss your face!’
Making their way over to the largest of the massive structures,
they stood and stared up at its impossible height and size, Scaurus
stepping over the humped remnant of a wall that had once
surrounded the massive pyramid to keep out casual trespassers.
‘How long did it take to build it, do you think?’
Still sulking, Ptolemy kept his own counsel and refused to even
acknowledge Dubnus’s question. Scaurus shook his head.
‘Nobody really knows. And in the absence of facts, opinions on the
question are varied, as is usually the case when learned men see
the chance to argue over something that is not fully understood.’
The tribune placed a hand on one of the facing stones, shaking his
head in admiration as his fingers traced the almost imperceptible hair
lines where it joined with those around it.
‘The joints between these stones are so fine as to be almost
undetectable, either by eye or by touch. Can you imagine the feats of
engineering and transport, and sheer muscle power that must have
been required to erect such a towering monument to the king? The
massed craftsmanship needed to polish so much stone to a perfect
finish on all six sides of every block? And yet the pyramid was, it
seems, born of great evil. Will you tell the story, Ptolemy, or must it
fall victim to my admittedly imperfect recall?’
The scribe inclined his head respectfully.
 ‘The tribune’s memory of his lessons is correct. Suphis, we are
told by Herodotus, broke with a noble tradition of fine governance of
his people upon ascending to the throne. He closed the temples and
compelled the people to undertake slave labour for him. The great
pyramid was built at such great cost that, it is written, the king
commanded his own daughter to lie with whoever could pay the sum
demanded as a contribution to the building works. And yet she was a
wily one, and demanded that each of her suitors gave her in addition
a stone, like those that were used to construct this pyramid, and
these she had placed in a monument of her own in the same form.’
Dubnus shook his head in disbelief.
‘She’d have had to have been on her back from dawn to dusk
every day for ten years to even pay for a tiny fraction of this! Were
there even that many men who could have afforded to pay her father
and still be able to fund an additional month’s work by a skilled
mason?’
Ptolemy flicked his fingers, dismissing the Briton’s question.
‘You might not have it in you to respect one of the greatest
historians of all time, but you cannot deny the truths of the men
whose spoken history he was the first to commit to paper.’ He
continued, ignoring Dubnus’s evident amusement. ‘And of course
this is simply one small part of the magnificence that is the mightiest
city that has ever existed on this earth.’
‘Which city is that?’
The scribe shot his sparring partner a pitying glance.
‘Memphis, of course. It was founded three thousand years ago, by
the first of all the Pharaohs, Menes. It was he who diverted the river
with earthworks, to build the city on the land that he reclaimed. And
who unified the two lands that became Aegyptus, the river delta and
the uplands. This is a fact on which both Herodotus and Manetho
have agreed in their own times, which means that it is indisputable,
and—’
‘So they both heard the same story and decided to copy it as their
own? We’re back to that way of getting to “the truth”, are we?’
Ptolemy turned and walked back towards the legion’s campfires in
evident disgust, and Marcus watched him go for a moment before
turning back to his friend.
‘You could just indulge him? He’s obviously proud of what his
countrymen have built here, and you have to acknowledge that this
monument is the most fantastic thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on,
don’t you?’
Dubnus shrugged.
‘Yes, but funded by a king’s daughter turning whore? Do you
believe that nonsense? There’s no king would have ordered such a
thing, for fear that his throne might be taken by the bastard child of
one of her clients! And as for a three-thousand-year-old city founded
by a king who built dikes to divert a river that powerful? I no more
believe that than all that bullshit about Rome being founded by a
man suckled by a wolf!’
Scaurus gestured to the camp.
‘Hopefully by now those two miscreants will have managed to
make something at least partially edible from the evening ration, so I
suggest we go and sample their cooking before they take the
opportunity of our absence to consume the lot. And you, Dubnus,
might be advised to needle our colleague just a little less, or he
might decide to keep the remainder of his knowledge to himself.’
The Briton shrugged.
‘I could probably live without the pearls of wisdom he lets fall,
unless he can point us at a tavern that sells a decent beer. All this
date wine is loosening my guts in a manner every bit as spectacular
as that pile of stone.’
They turned to walk back to the camp to find the Christian
Demetrius standing a dozen paces behind them, staring up at the
pyramid with a curious expression.
‘Well now, it’s our shadow. How are your feet, Demetrius?’
The Greek smiled at Cotta knowingly.
‘My feet, Centurion Lucius, have, as we both knew would be the
case, hardened up nicely, thank you for asking.’
‘So has your footwear, I see.’
‘These?’ Demetrius looked down at the military boots on his feet,
smiling at the Roman. ‘I have become accepted by the men of the
legion, it seems. They consider me to be an eccentric, and my tales
of my service to Rome have amused them well enough that they
have taken pity on my disintegrating footwear and found me a spare
pair of caligae. They even provided some hobnails with which to
make them fit for the march.’ He opened his hands in a gesture that
was part gratitude, part blessing. ‘It is as I have told you, the Lord will
provide for the needy traveller, if he has sufficient faith to cast
himself on the mercy of his fellows.’
‘And what do you make of this?’
The Christian looked up at the pyramid’s looming bulk before
speaking again.
‘I find it chastening, Centurion.’
‘Chastening?’
‘Indeed. I am chastened by the very presence of such an
idolatrous edifice and when I consider the thousands of men who
must have died in its construction. The man who commanded it to be
raised from the desert floor was considered a god, and yet for his
sins I expect that he will not have found any place in Our Lord’s
paradise. Any man who considers himself a god will face a powerful
reckoning, when the time comes for him to be judged.’
‘Our own emperor will one day be among that number, Demetrius.
You might do well to remember that.’
The Greek smiled at Scaurus.
‘As have been many others before him, I believe. Both those who
ruled and those whose rule was terminated by untimely
assassination. But all will be judged by God, when they stand before
him after their deaths. As will their killers.’
He bowed, turned and walked away, his gait showing no sign of
the discomfort that most of the party were still prone to even after
two weeks on the road.
‘What did he mean by that?’
Marcus looked at Cotta, who was staring after the Greek with a
thoughtful expression.
‘What?’
‘He said that his god will judge everyone, emperors and their
killers alike.’
‘It’s just his rhetoric. You ought to know that by now.’
 ‘Perhaps.’ The grim-faced centurion watched the Christian’s
receding figure with a hard stare. ‘Or perhaps he was trying to be
clever. Too clever.’
 6

‘Second Legion … HALT!’

The Tungrians, marching behind First Spear Abasi’s vanguard
century, stopped at the shouted command and stretched, mopping
the sweat from their foreheads with rags already soaked from the
day’s march. Staring at the city on the river’s distant eastern bank,
Sanga spat on the ground at his feet.
‘Another day’s march, another shithole town pretending to be a
city. So what makes this one so special? Which emperor put the
crown on his own head here, eh?’
Ptolemy leaned out of his donkey’s saddle with a conspiratorial
expression.
‘The city of Koptos has one feature that I think you’re going to find
very—’
Saratos interrupted, rolling his eyes.
‘Oh really? Is another three-thousand-year-old man bury here?’
Sanga turned to his comrade gleefully, ignoring the disgusted
looks that Ptolemy was giving them both from atop his mount at
being so rudely interrupted.
‘Now you’re getting the hang of it, you dozy Dacian ape! If it didn’t
happen more than five hundred years ago, then it just don’t count
round here! We can be burning hot, sweating until our balls rub raw,
feet pounded to ribbons from walking on rock all day and every day,
sand up our arses and flies up our fucking noses, and still, all some
donkey riders give a shit about is who did what, where, and how long
ago!’
Dubnus, having taken a long draught from his water bottle,
stoppered the container and looked up at the scribe, seeing that his
usual irritation was somehow more righteous than was usually the
case.
‘Well, gentlemen, I see you two have decided to give us yet
another illustration of why it is that neither of you will ever make it
beyond the dizzying rank of watch officer.’
‘Eh?’
Sanga found himself cross-eyed, as the end of the centurion’s vine
stick came to rest under his nose with a speed and precision that
belied the big man’s outwardly relaxed demeanour.
‘What was that, Watch Officer Sanga? Quickly now, before I
accidentally demote you and you lose all that lovely extra pay that’s
mounting up in your records.’
‘I meant, “I’m sorry, Centurion, I seem to have missed your point.”
Sir.’
‘Better, Sanga. Just about good enough, this time. And the point
that I was trying to make, albeit far too subtly for you to grasp, is that
I suspect our comrade Ptolemy was just about to tell you something
you’d be as keen to hear as any man here. Is that right, Scribe?’
The imperial secretary smiled slyly down from his mount’s back.
‘Perceptive of you, Centurion. I doubt I’ll bother now though.’
‘As you wish. Understandable too, given the cruel way this pair of
donkeys have just treated you.’
Smiling smugly at them, the big Centurion turned away to stare
across the Nilus at the walled city on its far side.
‘Look at that, eh? A great big place it is too, compared to some of
the genuine shitholes we’ve passed through on our way up the river
in the last three weeks.’
‘Oh now, that’s hardly fair to a city like Antinoopolis.’ Marcus
strolled forward to join his brother officer in his contemplation of the
bridge. ‘The architecture. The statues. The sheer audacity of a city
built from nothing in the middle of nowhere. You could hardly call that
a shithole, could you?’
Dubnus inclined his head.
‘I grant you that. Although it should be all that and more, shouldn’t
it, given it was built to celebrate the life of Hadrian’s dead boyfriend?
After all, if your favourite catamite is stupid enough to drown himself
in the Nilus, what else are you going to do but build an entire city as
his monument? Gods, but that man was an emperor to make
builders everywhere rich! A ninety-mile-long wall in Britannia, a city
in the desert in Aegyptus …’ He smiled ruefully at the thought. ‘But,
brother, it has to be said, nowhere we’ve been in all of these two
weeks of incessant marching has been quite as alluring’ – he
extended a hand theatrically – ‘as this!’
Sanga frowned at him, tipping his head on one side in puzzlement.
‘What’s so great about it then … Centurion? It looks tatty enough
to me. Just another desert town.’
The Briton grinned at him wolfishly.
‘And that, Watch Officer Sanga, is because you have eyes that
work well enough when you’re looking for the obvious, but not when
a thing is even a little bit less than clear.’
Sanga turned and shot his fellow soldier a despairing glance as
Scaurus joined the discussion, equally as amused as his officers.
‘Look at the scene before you, Watch Officer, and tell me what you
can see. In your own time; I’d imagine Abasi will be a good few
moments waiting for the duty centurion from the fort across the river
to cross’ – he paused portentously – ‘by the ferry.’
Sanga followed his pointing hand, shaking his head in bafflement.
‘Errr … a ferry, Tribune? Across the river … and a walled town …’
‘And there, if only you knew it, is the answer to the question,
Sanga.’ Marcus looked at the baffled Briton for a moment, and then
continued. ‘What are ferries for?’
The soldier’s frown of incomprehension deepened.
‘Crossing rivers, Centurion?’
‘Indeed. And what is it that might require there to be a ferry of that
size, do you think?’
Sanga shook his head in mystification, but behind him Saratos
nodded slowly.
‘Pack animals.’
The Roman pointed at him with the air of a man who has
discovered something he thought lost.
‘Yes, there’s the intelligence I was hoping for! Pack animals! A lot
of them! And what are walls usually built around towns for, Sanga?
After all, it’s not like any of the other cities we’ve passed have been
walled, is it?’
‘To keep out … enemies?’
The Dacian, now apparently having realised what it was that
Sanga was missing, interjected with an air of impatience.
‘To keep out thieves and robbers.’
Dubnus nodded vigorously.
‘Exactly, Saratos! To keep out the Blemmyes, who, I recall from
Ptolemy’s lectures, are the pre-eminent thieves and robbers in this
part of the province even if’ – he raised a hand to silence Ptolemy
before the Aegyptian had the chance to protest – ‘even if they do not
have faces in their chests, as some people might have you believe!
So, what does that tell you about the town?’
‘That many trade caravans cross river here.’ Saratos, confident he
knew the answer. ‘Which mean they come here from ports on distant
sea. A long journey.’
‘Indeed, which means that they will have to stop here for a day or
two to allow their animals to rest, and while the payment of customs
duties is sorted out, I’d imagine? And that means—’
Sanga’s face lit up.
‘Taverns! Taverns and—’
Dubnus rolled his eyes theatrically as Marcus interrupted the
suddenly gleeful soldier.
‘Yes, taverns and the women who frequent them. Well done,
Sanga, you got there in the end! But there is one more piece to this
puzzle.’ Sanga shook his head, his deductive powers exhausted.
‘The port through which all that wealth flows has been captured, by
the Blemmyes, we’re presuming. Which means that there aren’t any
caravans coming north up the road from the coast. And while there
may be caravans waiting to head down the road to Berenike, waiting
for the army to make it safe again, their men are likely to have spent
whatever money they had to spare for such entertainments.’
Sanga grinned hugely, prompting a world-weary interjection from
Dubnus.
‘There’s a large part of me wishes we’d never told him.’
The Briton nodded gleefully, turning to his Dacian comrade.
 ‘Empty taverns! Empty taverns offering cheap drink to pull in
customers, and full of lovely women all desperate for a little coin. Get
that purse open, Saratos, it looks like it’s time for you and me to go
to the rescue of the local economy!’

‘You have no idea how relieved I was to see you march up the road,
Tribune. It’s been a lonely couple of months since the First
Macedonica marched out and never came back.’
Scaurus returned the centurion’s salute, looking around the
headquarters’ office keenly for signs of neglect or disarray in the
commanding officer’s absence. The man standing before him looked
steady enough, with none of the signs of being under more stress
than he could manage that might have been expected from his small
command’s precarious position. The shadows under his eyes,
however, and the haunted look of a man who had spent months
waiting for an attack, told their own story. The Roman clapped him
on the shoulder reassuringly, then pointed to the painted wall map of
the area around the city.
‘You are to be congratulated on the state of your command,
Centurion. Some men would have been tempted to absent
themselves, or to allow this outpost to become slack and
demoralised, but you and your men are a credit to your cohort.
Perhaps you can explain what you know of the current situation to
us?’
The officer pointed at a point on the map, well to the south and
west of the town.
‘Prefect Servius was heading in this direction when he marched. A
caravan had been robbed by Blemmyes, stripped of everything by
over a hundred of them. The prefect was determined to find and kill
or enslave every last one of them by locating their lair and wiping
them out to the last man, to teach their tribe a lesson for getting
above themselves …’ He caught Scaurus’s look of bafflement. ‘It
wasn’t like what they usually do, Tribune, it was different.
Dangerous.’
‘What do they usually do, Centurion?’
 The other man responded to Marcus’s question by pointing at the
map again, putting a finger on the long road that led from the port of
Berenike to Koptos.
‘Each of these settlements on the track is a watering point, with
about twenty miles between each one. The way the Blemmyes
usually operate is to track the progress of a caravan by watching the
watering points, working out how many guards each one has, and
then stopping them on the road with just enough strength to make it
easier for the man in charge to pay a small fee to be allowed to pass,
rather than fight and risk losing the entire consignment. Some of
those merchants are moving the entire contents of a sea-going ship
at a time, fifty or more donkeys all carrying a hundred pounds of
goods, a load which could earn millions of sesterces when it gets to
Alexandria. They call it “the Blemmyes tax”, just enough to make it
worth the bandits’ effort, not so much that fighting them off is the
better option. After all, the businessmen running the trade pay tax at
the port, and again to cross the bridge across the Nilus here, and
again in Alexandria to sell their goods there to the merchants who
will ship them onto Rome, so what’s one more levy to pass onto the
end customer? But this caravan came in bare, everything taken from
them, including the guards’ weapons. The caravan master was still
raging four days after it had happened and demanded that the
prefect do something about it immediately.’
‘And Prefect Servius agreed.’
‘Yes, sir. I don’t think he had much choice in any case. If we’d
failed to react, then it looked likely that the cheeky bastards would
repeat the trick. There’s a ready market for stolen goods to the
south, and the Blemmyes roam pretty much wherever they want on
both sides of the river, so it wouldn’t be all that hard for them to turn
their haul into gold.’
‘So your prefect marched with a full cohort, other than your
century?’
The centurion nodded.
‘Yes, Tribune. He left all the men approaching retirement and
anyone carrying an injury here and stripped out most of my century’s
combat effectives. Four hundred men and a double-strength
squadron of cavalry looked like more than enough to deal with a
hundred or so of those ragged-arsed desert savages.’ He shook his
head in disbelief. ‘But they marched away and just never came back.
Four days later, without any word from them, when I would have
expected them to have sent word that they’d dealt with the problem
and were marching for home, riders came up the main road. For a
moment I thought it was a message party from the prefect, but I soon
enough realised that they weren’t like any cavalrymen I’d ever seen
before.’
‘What did they look like?’
All eyes turned to Ptolemy, who had stepped forward with a look of
excited curiosity.
‘They were darker skinned than we are, for a start, some of them
quite black, some dark brown. I could see that they weren’t our men
while they were still a mile away. And they were wearing felt armour,
dyed red, except for—’
‘Felt? What bloody use is felt?’
Ptolemy ignored Dubnus’s question, his eyes strong with the
certainty of what he had deduced from the description.
‘They were Kushite cavalry, men of the kingdom of Meroë, that
much is indisputable. The black men among them come from the far
south of Aethyopia, while the brown-skinned are from the northern
part of the kingdom, not so very far from here.’
‘Meroë?’ Scaurus shook his head in dismay. ‘I’d hoped that these
were only Blemmyes raiders.’
‘It is certain, Tribune. If the skin colour of these riders were not
enough, then their felt armour makes if doubly so. The Blemmyes do
not use the material, but rather choose ox hides that have been
cured to make them as hard as wood.’
‘I still want to know what sort of idiot wears felt in this sort of heat,
for all the good it would be in stopping an arrow or a blade.’
‘All in good time, Dubnus. You might find the practice more
effective than you expect.’ Scaurus turned back to the centurion. ‘So
what did these riders have to say for themselves?’
‘They rode up to the gate a hundred strong, as bold as you like,
despite the fact that we had half a dozen bolt throwers manned and
aimed down at them. Their leader demanded to speak with the
commanding officer, so I ignored the fact I was close to shitting
myself and went out to speak to him. And he was a big bastard,
bigger than him …’ He gestured to Dubnus. ‘And evil-looking with it,
like he hadn’t got much patience for anything that wasn’t just right for
him. He was wearing scale armour, unlike the rest of them, and it
looked like the scales were gold to me, and his sword was the
strangest thing I’ve ever seen in a soldier’s hand. I got a good look at
it because he drew it while he was telling me what had happened to
the cohort, waving it around and going on about the crushing might
of the god Amun or some other crap. I was half relieved but half
disappointed that the boys on the wall behind me didn’t put a bolt
through the mouthy bastard. I suppose they wanted to live just as
much as I did.’
‘This sword. Was it shaped like a sickle moon on a short, straight
blade?’
‘Yes. But how did you—’
Ptolemy turned to Scaurus.
‘That man was a temple guard, Tribune.’ The scribe shook his
head solemnly. ‘And the temple guards are the elite of the army of
Meroë. Whatever it is they want, they must really want it, if they have
their best warriors in the field.’
Scaurus nodded grimly.
‘So what was the message this man had for you?’
‘More or less what I expected, to be honest with you, sir. The
cohort was ambushed, slaughtered and their bodies left for the
vultures. He showed me Prefect Servius’s helmet as the proof. And
he told me to pass a message to my emperor …’ The centurion
smiled wanly. ‘Perhaps his relationship with his king is closer than
mine.’
‘And the message?’
‘I wrote it down. He said this: “Berenike is ours now. The emerald
mines of the desert are ours now. All the land south of this city is
ours now. The kingdom of Meroë will destroy any and all forces sent
to attempt to reverse this change of rule.” There was more, a lot of
prick-waving about how many horsemen and war elephants they
have, and some lordly stuff about how trading between the Rome
and Meroë was going to work, but to be honest I just kept looking at
the prefect’s helmet and imagining all my comrades scattered across
the desert. The gist of it was that if we want the goods that ship into
Berenike, or the emeralds from the mines, they’ll come at a price.’
‘It’s a sound strategy, and cleverly executed. Lure most of our
strength out into the desert in pursuit of bandits, and then confront
them with an army instead.’ Marcus looking questioningly at Ptolemy.
‘In your lectures on the province’s history you have mentioned a war
against Meroë, back in Augustus’s day. How many men did they
manage to field against Rome, back then?’
‘Several tens of thousands of men, if Strabo had it right, Centurion.
It seems that the ruler of Meroë reacted badly to Rome’s conquest of
the land south of here, and the loss of tax revenue that resulted. So
when some of our forces were withdrawn to fight the Arabians, they
saw their opportunity and invaded. They took every city on the river
as far north as Souan and enslaved the inhabitants, carrying away
the statues of Augustus. A greater insult would have been hard to
imagine.’
‘Which meant, of course, that the emperor couldn’t ignore their
challenge.’ Scaurus smiled lopsidedly at the thought. ‘I have read of
this war. Augustus sent Gaius Publius Petronius south in just the sort
of counter-attack that a great general would undertake, pitching his
ten thousand men against thirty thousand in the Merotic army. Of
course these were battle-hardened legions, fresh from the last of the
civil wars only five years before, and it seems that they went through
their enemy easily enough. After which Petronius led them south to
sack the city of Napata, the former capital and northernmost of their
cities. With that punishment inflicted, he withdrew to the north, rather
than risk getting bogged down among hostile tribes, and fortified a
hilltop stronghold on the river Nilus, at a place called Premnis.’
Ptolemy inclined his head in recognition of the tribune’s historical
knowledge.
‘Indeed so. Although this seems to have inflamed the situation
somewhat. The ruler of Meroë, a queen called Amanirenas, raised a
fresh army from her peoples of the south, and came north three
years later intending revenge by destroying the fortress. It is
suspected that her husband Teriteqas had been killed in the first
battle, and that she was ruling as Kandake in his place. Petronius
seems to have beaten her to it, however, and reinforced his position
with every bolt thrower he could lay hands on. Enough to cut any
serious attempt to attack the fortress to bloody ribbons. And so, it
seems, a stalemate resulted.’
Scaurus turned back to the map, pointing at the land to the far
south.
‘And eventually, as is the way of things where neither party can
gain the upper hand, Meroë and Rome decided to be allies, rather
than enemies. Rome paid a handsome tribute to the queen and her
successors, and Meroë sent troops to fight for Rome when
requested. Premnis remained as a Roman fortress inside territory
that was nominally Kushite, and the guarantor of security for the
cities along the Nilus south from here. It was garrisoned until about a
century ago, and even when the army in Aegyptus was reduced to a
single legion, and Premnis was abandoned for them to reoccupy, it
seemed as if the rulers of Meroë were content with their northern
frontier. Until now.’
He stared at the map for a moment with a thoughtful expression.
‘I wonder what it was that convinced the current king to change his
policy towards Rome?’ He shrugged, turning back to the centurion.
‘No matter, the question that matters isn’t what caused this war, but
how we go about ending it. First Spear Abasi.’
The grizzled centurion stepped forward.
‘Tribune.’
‘I want this city sealed tight. Double the guards on every gate and
close the ferry to all traffic. With no exceptions.’
Abasi nodded, saluted and left the room to carry out his orders,
leaving Turbo to voice the question that was on every man’s lips.
‘Why seal the city, Tribune? Surely the real threat lies far from
here?’
Scaurus stared at the map with a faint smile.
‘Because, Tribune, when the plan that’s forming in my head
becomes apparent, there’s going to be a stampede of men wanting
to get their property away from here before it’s too late.’

‘So what do we do now? It seems as if we’ve marched all this way to

be presented with a choice that’s no choice at all, given there’s an
army in the field that would probably wipe its arse with us in less
than an hour. Although I’d dearly love to see an elephant again, a
proper war beast and not like those poor tired things they have in
Rome. Just not from close enough for it to get the chance to stamp
me flat.’
Marcus, Dubnus and Qadir were standing on the fortress wall,
looking out over the river at the watch fires burning in the legion’s
camp on the Nilus’s western bank. The cloudless night sky blazed in
the glory of countless stars above them, and all three men had
donned their cloaks to keep out the desert night’s chill.
‘What do we do now?’
Marcus stared across the river’s black water for a moment before
replying to Dubnus’s question, watching as the reflections of a million
stars shimmered in the dark rippling water. ‘We do what Rome
expects of us. We’re not the first men to be faced with such an
unenviable choice, and we won’t be the last. Republic or empire, it’s
always been the same. A man faces whatever it is that Rome needs
from him, knowing that his decision isn’t whether he lives or dies, but
how he goes about satisfying the city’s expectations of its sons.
Even today, when most citizens of Rome have never seen the sun
rise over the city.’
Dubnus shrugged.
‘I understand. Uncle Sextus spent the first five years of my time
with the cohort beating exactly that lesson into me, may the gods
rest his departed soul. That and threatening me with death for trying
to get out of the camp to kill the men who conspired to murder my
father. And I have no problem with dying, not when we’ve refused to
accept it so many times in the past. When the time for me to die
comes, I’ll face it with a snarl, not a whimper. But surely one legion
can’t take on an entire kingdom? I’m all for not allowing the bastards
to just annex parts of the empire whenever they feel like it, but it
seems to me like we’ve stumbled into something that’s bigger than
five thousand soldiers can hope to deal with.’
Marcus grinned at him.
‘Go on then, Legatus, what are the options?’
The Briton shrugged.
‘I can only see two, and neither of them are any good. We can
advance down the road to this port they’ve taken from us, face an
army several times our own strength with the equivalent of a single
legion of unblooded men, and see how that plays out. The likely
result being that we all die and have our bones picked clean by the
vultures, like those poor bastards that marched out of here a few
weeks ago. Or we can sit here and defend what’s effectively Rome’s
new southern frontier, leaving these southerners in possession of the
port we were sent to retake. The likely result of that being that we
find ourselves recalled to Rome for execution, or just killed here,
once that bastard Cleander hears that we’ve failed to retake the
source of his precious tax revenue. And neither option feels all that
good to me, since they both mean I’ll never see home again. It just
doesn’t seem like much of an end to our stories, does it?’
‘No, brother, it does not.’ Qadir’s soft voice was underlaid with an
amused tone. ‘But in all the years that we have marched with him,
can you honestly tell me that you’ve ever known Tribune Scaurus to
lack for an idea in situations like this? I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t
have an answer to this that involves neither suiciding on the spears
of our enemy nor accepting this new status quo.’
‘What other options are there? We either go out to fight, and die,
or we stay here and live, for a little while longer.’
Marcus shook his head in amusement at Dubnus’s blunt
assessment.
‘Were you so outraged at the idea of felt for armour that you
actually stopped listening to anything else that was said?’
‘I heard the scribbler and Scaurus exchanging notes as to some
battle from history or other, but I will admit that I wasn’t listening as
closely as I might have done, had I realised there was a third option
involved. So what was it?’
The Roman looked out across the starlit darkness for a moment.
 ‘The tale they told was of the war fought between Meroë and
Rome two hundred years ago. When Rome took control of the
province, and reclaimed territory that the southerners had taken as
the Ptolemies’ rule weakened.’
‘These Ptolemies being the Greeks who replaced the previous
rulers hundreds of years before that?’
‘Exactly. If you read enough history books, it becomes clear that
power ebbs and flows like that. At one time the rulers of Aegyptus
regarded the land far to the south of here as their own, but as their
dynasty declined, the rulers of Meroë came in turn to view it, and the
money that flowed from it, as having passed to them, as if by right.
Saying that the arrival of Rome, and the loss of that land, came as
something of a disappointment to their king, would be putting it
mildly. To use Ptolemy’s metaphor, it must have been as if a river of
gold had been diverted from their treasury, to flow instead to Rome’s
coffers.’
‘And he didn’t take that disappointment well?’
‘No. He invaded, with three times the strength that Rome could
muster, given all the other wars that were being fought at the same
time.’
‘But we won, right?’
Marcus grinned.
‘We? You really have become a Roman, haven’t you?’
‘What do you expect? I’ve been risking my life for Rome for more
than half my life. Rome feeds me, Rome pays me, and one of these
days Rome is going to bury me. So, this war …?’
‘Was fought, and won, in a manner of speaking. Even if the
emperor then chose to bribe the Kushites into making peace to avoid
having to risk fighting again with such a numerical disadvantage on
the ground. He knew that his general Petronius won because of a
very particular set of circumstances and I suspect that our Tribune,
ever attentive to the history books, is going to take that lesson and
play it out to see if he can remind the current king of the mistakes
made by his predecessors.’

‘You can’t do this! These beasts are our property!’

 ‘And our livelihoods too!’
‘You’re taking the bread out of our children’s mouths, you thieving
bastards!’
A group of a dozen irate men were railing at Scaurus and his
officers in the fortress’s praetorium, the barrier of a pair of crossed
spears all that was preventing their protests from being even more
personal. To one side of their seething group a similar number of
men were standing apart, watching their employers’ fury with the
knowing looks of men who had either done business with or served
in the army, and understood the only likely outcome of the traders’
rage. The leaders of the various teams of bodyguards who would, in
happier times, have been dispersed across the province, escorting
the traders’ caravans to and from Berenike. They had respectfully
requested admittance to the meeting, a request which had puzzled
Scaurus until the Romans realised that, far from having vanished on
their arrival in the city, as had seemed to be the case, Demetrius was
among them. Ignoring the merchants’ fury, Marcus watched him,
leaning on the office’s wall with a look that combined amusement
and disgust at their anger, as they railed at the indignities that were
being heaped upon them.
Scaurus raised an eyebrow at Abasi.
‘Perhaps, First Spear, you might like to restore a little decorum to
this meeting before we continue?’
‘Tribune.’
The veteran officer stepped forward, raising his vine stick in one
hand while the other rested casually on the hilt of his sword. He
swept the gaggle of outraged merchants with a cold-eyed stare for a
moment and then, when his attempt at silent intimidation failed to
produce the instant result he had clearly been hoping for, he stepped
forward again, closing the gap between the pack of furious traders
and himself to less than two paces.
‘Silence!’
The parade ground roar stunned the complainants into momentary
quietude, before one man, braver or more foolhardy than his fellows,
opened his mouth to renew the verbal onslaught that had been
prompted by Scaurus’s pronouncement. Lunging forward, Abasi beat
him to it, putting the vine stick’s gold-capped tip up under his chin
and tensing his arm, ready to thrust it upwards.
‘You are one word from dying! One word! Don’t even breathe!’ The
merchant goggled at him, raising both hands in silent supplication,
his face slowly reddening while the senior centurion stared intently at
him until, with the other man starting to visibly shake, he lowered the
stick fractionally. ‘You may breathe. Do not speak.’
A long, shaky breath hissed from the frozen man’s mouth, his eyes
bulging as Scaurus stepped forward to stand alongside his first
spear.
‘We’ll try that again, shall we? Without the chorus of disapproval
this time, so that we can all discuss the matter in a rather more
civilised manner. As I was saying …’ He paused for a moment as if
savouring the silence, then nodded to Abasi. ‘I think you can allow
the gentleman on the end of your vine stick to stand unaided, thank
you, First Spear.’
The hard-faced senior centurion stepped back with a warning
stare at the terrified merchant.
‘So, gentlemen, for those of you who might not have heard what it
was that I said a moment ago, before that unseemly excitement, I
shall repeat myself. All of your beasts of burden are being
requisitioned until further notice, in pursuance of an urgent military
priority. If you wish to comment, I suggest you select a
representative to make your views heard in a civilised manner.’
The traders went into a huddle, selecting one of their number to be
their spokesman and telling him what it was they expected him to
say on their behalf.
‘Well then? I have a war to be fighting, so if you want your point to
be heard you’ll have to make it quickly.’
The spokesman stepped forward.
‘Honoured Tribune …’
‘That’s a good start. Keep it up and my first spear might be able to
contain his temper.’
The trader flicked a nervous glance at Abasi before continuing.
‘My fellow merchants have asked me to make it clear to you that
they view this confiscation of their property with the utmost dismay.’
 ‘Because …?’
‘Tribune?’
The spokesman looked puzzled, and Abasi’s voice took on an
impatient tone.
‘Why?’
‘Ah. Because, Tribune, our mules are the means by which we
transport the commercial goods on which our livelihoods depend.’
‘I see.’ Scaurus nodded his understanding. ‘No mules, no
transport. No transport, no gold.’
‘Exactly, Tribune. So you can see—’
‘Except there is nothing to transport. Is there? You came this far
south and didn’t dare push onto Berenike, once the soldiers here told
you that the port has been occupied by Rome’s neighbour to the
south. You fear that the kingdom of Meroë will confiscate your
beasts, and use them to trade with their own cities instead. Which
means that you are in fact stuck here, until the port is retaken, or at
least abandoned by its occupiers. Correct?’
The trader nodded reluctantly, unable to argue.
‘Yes, Tribune.’
‘Which means, I presume, that what you would very much like to
see happen is for me to take my legionaries away to the south, and
either defeat the enemy or at least make them leave the port. After
all, you’re telling each other, that’s what you pay all that tax for, isn’t
it? It’s hardly your fault that the army was stupid enough to lose the
port, and cut you off from your main source of revenue …’
The spokesman remained silent, afraid to agree with such an
opinion even if it was true enough.
‘Yes, I thought so.’ Scaurus smiled at the group, the hard smile of
a man with the whip hand. ‘Except the reality, gentlemen, is this:
your taxes, heavy though you may believe them to be, do not in fact
fund anywhere near enough force in this province to protect it,
should its neighbour to the south decide to unexpectedly declare
war. One legion is all we have, and a part of that legion is needed to
keep a grip on the port city of Alexandria. The port though which
Rome is fed. Which means, gentlemen, that if I am to reopen the
trade route across the Erythraean Sea, I must find a way to put an
army of, at a guess, thirty thousand infantry, archers, horsemen and,
for all I know, war elephants, off balance. I need to make them react
to me, rather than submitting to the role their king has planned for
me.’
Silence fell over the room as Scaurus contemplated the office’s
wall map for a moment.
‘See that?’ He pointed at a point on the river, far to the south of the
border town of Souan where Rome and Meroë’s lands officially met,
the unmistakable symbol used to denote a legion fortress. ‘That’s the
impregnable stronghold of Premnis. For a long time it was held by
the empire as an outpost in Meroë’s territory, a clear statement of
Roman superiority, but since the time of Trajan it’s been held by the
army of Meroë, because when Rome decided to pull one of the two
legions that held the province out and send it to Syria, there wasn’t
the manpower, or the perceived need, to hold it any longer. And
here’s the thing, gentlemen.’
He turned back to look at the now silent traders, his relaxed
manner of a moment before replaced by an intense, predatory stare.
‘It might be the best part of a month’s march to the south, and
deep in territory they consider their own, but I’m going to take it off
them despite that. Or perhaps even just because of it. I’m going to
march south with every man at my disposal, and every mule too,
yours included, loaded with enough grain to feed my legion for
months. So that even if I find the fortress empty, and devoid of
supplies, I will be able to fortify it and hold it for long enough that the
enemy have no choice but to come to remove me from their supply
route.’
‘Tribune, if I might speak on behalf of the other party to this
discussion?’ Demetrius pushed himself away from the wall, raising
his open hands to show Abasi that he meant no disrespect as the
first spear pivoted to face him. ‘There’s no need for excitement,
Sese.’ He gestured at the fuming merchants. ‘These men, who will
clearly never enter the kingdom of Our Father in heaven as long as
they remain as selfish and greedy as they so evidently are, do not
reflect the views of my brothers here.’
‘Your brothers, Demetrius?’
 The Christian nodded beatifically at Scaurus, pulling a necklace
from beneath his tunic, a rope of silver with a dull iron ornament
hanging from its links. Appearing to be a wheel with six spokes, it
was evidently immediately familiar to Scaurus, and several of the
traders, who shot knowing looks at each other and shook their heads
in disgust.
‘I have seen this before, in Rome. The Greek letters Iota and Chi
combined to form the first letters of your martyr’s name in that
language. Am I right?’
The Greek bowed respectfully, opening his arms as if to preach.
‘Indeed you are, Tribune, Iota and Chi, Jesus Christos. The
symbol of my faith. We are followers of the Christos, Tribune – some
old, some new, but we all wear some form of the badge of our faith.
And we choose to do so in the simplest of forms: wood, or non-
precious metal. One of my brothers here wears a symbol woven
from reeds.’ He smiled at the Romans’ nonplussed faces. ‘That is the
beauty of our religion, gentlemen. I had only to find the church of my
beliefs in the city to make a connection with these men, my brothers
in faith and devotion.’
‘I see.’ Scaurus shrugged. ‘You know that I am unbiased in this
matter, neither for nor against your sect. So tell me, what is it that
you and your new brothers wish to input to this discussion?’
Demetrius inclined his head in thanks before continuing.
‘You see, the thing is, Tribune, these herders of donkeys …’ He
waited for the traders’ protests to die away under Abasi’s
uncompromising stare before continuing. ‘I mean you no particular
offence, gentlemen, but that is what you are when your earthly
wealth is removed from the equation. Your utterly meaningless
wealth, which will forever blind you to the necessities of this life, if a
man is to find meaning and, in your cases, redemption. You are, of
course, unused to having this undeniable fact pointed out to you. We
all know that in normal times, the men with swords who protect your
gold, your silk and your spices, are nothing to you but tools, men you
employ to keep other men’s hands off your goods, to be discarded
after use. And these men, for their part, know well enough not to
point it out to you, because they know that in your vain glory you will
punish them for such temerity.’
His smile broadened.
‘But now, when the times are hard, and every man with a sword is
of value, and those among us who have served with the army doubly
valuable, the need for any such restraint is dispelled like mist in the
wind.’ He put a finger to his lips. ‘Which might make it better for you
to reflect on your new stations in life, and consider a little more
humility on your own parts?’
‘An eloquent rejoinder, if a little judgemental.’ Scaurus pointed to
the Christian’s comrades. ‘You speak for them?’
‘Yes, Tribune. I speak for those previously downtrodden men.
Each of them is the leader of a band of swords for hire, some
smaller, some larger, numbering perhaps two hundred men in total.’
The Roman smiled, shaking his head in amusement.
‘You defy all expectations, Demetrius. But, since these … your
brothers in the Christos, it seems … have accepted you as their
leader, perhaps you could outline to me what it is that this newly
empowered group of men would like to bring to this meeting?’
‘My brothers and I understand the situation you have been
charged with rectifying better than these others, because most of us
have served the empire in one way or another, and all of us have the
intelligence to know what comes next, once you have separated
these herders from their mules.’
‘What does he mean?’ The traders’ spokesman stepped forward,
ignoring Abasi in his irritation. ‘What is it that comes next, and what
makes you think that we can be—’ He recoiled, as the first spear
slapped his arm expertly with the vine stick’s gold cap. ‘Ah! Fuck!
You can’t—’ The stick landed again, smacking the flesh of his thigh,
and Demetrius smiled at Abasi with genuine admiration. ‘You remind
me of a senior centurion I served with in Judea, First Spear Abasi.
He too was an artist with the vine stick, if not as pugilistically inclined
as your good self. And as for what I mean …’ He looked at Scaurus.
‘Shall I tell them, Tribune?’
The Roman waved a hand, shaking his head in amusement.
‘Be my guest.’
 The Greek turned to face the freshly cowed merchants with a
knowing expression.
‘Well now, gentlemen, let me educate you as to the new reality
that you face, and help lift the curtain of your incomprehension. Until
a few moments ago, you considered yourselves to be the masters of
all you surveyed, did you not? Doubtless some of you still do. You
could buy and sell men like these behind me for the promise of a
gold coin or two, and with a snap of your fingers make them yours to
command, if they wished to collect on the promise of that sliver of
yellow metal. But now, my friends, the big wheel has finally turned,
as it always does. And now, it seems, you are the masters of
hundreds of beasts for which there is no cargo. Which means that all
you are is actual mule herders. And the worst of it is, not one of you
has realised what that means for you all.’ He gestured to Scaurus.
‘You are part of this man’s army now, whether you like it or not.’
The traders bridled, but, undaunted, Demetrius simply shook his
head at their outrage.
‘Please, gentlemen, tell me, what exactly were you expecting?
That the tribune here would pay you out for the loss of the animals
and leave you here, now that you know exactly where it is he’s
taking his legion? The moment he told us what his objective is, it was
clear to me, if not to you, that all of us will be going along for the ride.
Not one man who knows the plan can be left behind, unless he is in
uniform and bound to the empire’s service.’
The traders stared at Scaurus in horror, and the Roman nodded
his agreement with the former soldier.
‘He’s right, I’m afraid. Secrecy really is of the utmost importance in
this instance, since I have no desire to find myself confronted by a
vastly superior enemy a hundred miles short of the objective and
without any means of placing any defence between my legion and
such overwhelming strength.’
‘But surely …’
Demetrius laughed softly at the traders’ spokesman, but Marcus
could sense an anger arising within him, a fury of righteousness.
‘What’s that you’re muttering? Surely a tribune of Rome can’t
imagine that you fine gentlemen would ever sell us out to the
barbarians that took Berenike? Except he doesn’t have to imagine,
does he? Look at you all! You are empty vessels! Buying and selling
is what you do! It is all you do! All you are capable of! If the tribune
here were unwise enough to leave any of you behind when he
marches south, you would be falling over each other in your
eagerness to get some recompense for your lost animals before our
dust had even settled on the horizon. You would be away down the
road, vying to sell us out to the unbelievers without a second
thought, because you lack any fidelity other than to gold.’
He fell silent for a moment, and Marcus suspected that he was
suppressing the anger that had boiled up in him. Then, shaking his
head, he laughed out loud at their affronted expressions.
‘And don’t dare to look unhappy, because you know my words are
true! So, given your inevitable betrayal, if you have the chance to do
so, Tribune Scaurus has only two ways to prevent that unhappy
outcome. Either he kills you all, here and now.’ He waited while the
blunt statement sank in, as the traders cast nervous glances at the
soldiers around them. ‘It would best be done quickly and quietly, of
course, before you try to make a bolt for it and have to be chased all
over the fortress before you can be put down.’ A profound silence
gripped the room, and Demetrius allowed the tension to build for a
moment before continuing. ‘It’s either that, or you are conscripted to
march south alongside us, enabling your lives to be spared. I would
recommend the second option, if I were you.’
‘Nobody actually mentioned conscription, Demetrius.’
The former soldier turned back to look at Scaurus with a look of
disparagement which Abasi contrived to ignore.
‘Tribune. Please. Don’t insult my intelligence, or that of the men
behind me, or the men who work for them, for that matter. We are
ex-soldiers, for the most part, and we can read the writing on the wall
easily enough. We represent the best part of two centuries of trained
men, and that’s not something a man in your position can afford to
ignore.’
‘True.’ The first spear spoke for Scaurus, putting the tip of his vine
stick on the Christian’s chest. ‘I would conscript you all. But the
tribune has other ideas.’
 ‘Really?’ Demetrius looked at Scaurus with a fresh curiosity. ‘What
ideas, Tribune? What is it that you’d value more than easily available
trained men?’
The Roman smiled knowingly.
‘You understand what I plan to do about this invasion from the
south, don’t you?’
The Christian nodded.
‘Yes, I think I do. You’re not the only man here to have read the
histories, Tribune. You’re going to take a lesson from what Augustus
ordered two hundred years ago, and counter-punch where the
enemy isn’t strong, then tempt them into your trap. This place
Premnis was a fortress, right?’
‘It was. And, if we can take it, we can keep them occupied for
months, possibly even make them think twice about the idea of trying
to wrest Berenike from Rome. But I think we can be assured that the
man commanding the army of Meroë isn’t stupid enough to let the
same thing happen to his army that happened two hundred years
ago. He’ll have scouts out, cavalry set to watch and report on any
move south. The geography of this theatre of operations is strongly
in favour of our enemy.’ He pointed at the map again. ‘Do you see?
Even when we have marched two thirds of the distance between
here and Premnis, following the river’s course, we will only be eighty
miles from Berenike as the crow flies. So if we are detected by the
enemy’s scouts before we cross the border with Meroë at Souan, we
are likely to find the fortress manned and ready for us when we
reach it.’
‘You must avoid alerting the watchers.’
Scaurus shook his head.
‘A more vigorous approach will be required. I must take the
watchers unawares and kill or capture them. Either will do.’
‘And you want us to make that happen?’
‘Exactly. I’d imagine that your brothers in belief know the desert
better than any of us. They’re already equipped for the job, for the
most part, and those that were stripped of their weapons by the
Blemmyes can be re-equipped from this fort’s armoury.’
Demetrius grinned.
 ‘And you think you can trust them, do you, Tribune? Can
Christians be relied upon to do the empire’s bidding?’
Scaurus shrugged.
‘I care little for the uncertain relationship between your sect and
the empire. You consider yourselves men of your word, do you not?
Indeed, I seem to recall reading that trustworthiness is a central
tenet of your man the Christos’s teachings. And besides, I’m a firm
believer in both the carrot and the stick.’
‘Let me guess.’ Demetrius gave his fellows a knowing look. ‘The
carrot is a generous sum in cash – shall we say five in gold each,
payable when this is all done with, legally signed and binding on both
parties. That way, if none of these men come back, the money still
gets distributed to their families. And the stick is the sacramentum.
Am I right?’
‘Not a bad guess.’ The Roman nodded sagely. ‘Five aureii might
be pushing your luck a little, but we can come to a mutually
agreeable number, I have little doubt of that. And yes, you’ll be
swearing the oath of allegiance.’
The Christian nodded, looking across at the bodyguards for
confirmation, then straightened his back and saluted.
‘We will join with you, Tribune. For my part I would have gone
south with you in any case, and these men will readily serve, as long
as you do not seek to subvert their beliefs.’
‘Good. First Spear Abasi will muster you and your comrades, sign
you up and have you take the oath. Come up with a name for
yourselves; we’ll need to call you something on the pay records.’
The merchants’ representative raised a hesitant hand.
‘What about us?’
‘A good question.’ Scaurus turned a less than beneficent eye on
the traders. ‘What about you? What is it that you have to offer,
beyond the ownership of a few hundred mules, which, as I’ve
already told you, are going to be requisitioned in any case?’
‘But … why wouldn’t we get paid as well?’
The Roman raised an eyebrow.
‘You want to swear the sacramentum as well, do you?’
‘Sacramentum?’
 ‘The oath of loyalty to the emperor.’
‘Will it get us paid?’
Scaurus smiled slowly.
‘Oh yes, it’ll get you paid something. Although the terms it imposes
for breaking the oath are, to say the least of it, harsh.’
‘How much?’
‘How does a denarius a day sound?’
The traders’ spokesman laughed at him.
‘What do you take us for? That’s barely enough to feed us!’
The Roman shook his head at Abasi’s incensed glare, and the
merchant’s grin widened as he sensed an advantage, but his smile
slowly faded, as the object of his derision walked slowly across the
room and stood toe to toe with him.
‘What do I take you for? I take you for whores, since you ask.’
‘How dare—’
The spokesman abruptly fell silent, as Scaurus drew his dagger
and raised the blade so that he could see his own reflection in it.
‘Forgive me, I’ve always been unimpressed by false outrage. You
might be good at calculating your profits and your losses, or
posturing to get the advantage in a negotiation, but you’re not all that
clever when it comes to reading people. Are you?’ The vehemence
of the last two words made the other man flinch. ‘I take you for
whores, because that’s what you are. You have offered to take the
oath of allegiance to the emperor without any thought of actually
obeying it, in the hope of getting the same deal as men who’re going
to risk their lives for that gold. Why do we call the oath of allegiance
the sacramentum, Sese?’
Abasi stepped forward, barking out his answer loudly enough to
make the traders flinch as one man.
‘Because it is a promise before the gods, Tribune!’ The centurion’s
eyes blazed with a passion that made the man before him take a
step backwards, but Abasi reached out a hand and took a grip of his
richly decorated tunic, lifting him onto the tips of his toes with an
effortless strength. ‘The most holy of all the oaths any man can
swear! A promise to all the imperial gods who have gone before the
current emperor! A promise to be held unto death! To serve the
throne and its officers without hesitation! Never to desert the service
of Rome! To accept death in the service of Rome, rather than
dishonour the empire by accepting defeat!’
He looked the trader up and down with a look of disdain, lowering
him back onto the floor and pushing him away with just enough
power to put the hapless merchant on his backside. Scaurus smiled
at the horrified men before him, sheathing the blade before he spoke
again.
‘My word, First Spear, that was quite a speech. And every word
true enough to carve in stone for a soldier’s memorial altar.’ He
turned back to the merchants. ‘It all sounds a bit trite to you people,
doesn’t it? You’ve spent your whole life laughing at men like us who
keep you safe from men like the ones who’ve taken Berenike.’
Scaurus smiled knowingly at the newly chastened traders. ‘But trust
me, the sacramentum, once taken, rolls over you with the power of a
boulder that’s rolled from the top of a mountain. So, whores –
because we’ve established that’s what you are – how much gold
would make you happy to swear that sort of allegiance? How much
does it take to buy your loyalty unto death? And before you answer,
consider one question very seriously.’
He gestured to Demetrius.
‘What my newest officer there said a few minutes ago, about the
security risk you present us? It was true. My choice is either to take
you with me as little more than ration thieves, or else to have you put
to death to prevent the very significant risk that you’ll betray us.’
The man who Abasi had sent sprawling had got to his feet, his
reply a mix of offended dignity and desperate bluster.
‘You would not dare to carry out such a brutal attack on free men!
We are citizens of Rome, all of us, and we have the right to demand
our day before a judge, in Rome! The empire would have you
executed, were you to—’
‘I doubt it.’ The cold certainty in Marcus’s voice stopped the
merchant’s protests as he strolled forward with both hands on the
hilts of his swords. ‘You might have been right a hundred years ago,
under Vespasian, or even ten, under Marcus Aurelius. The empire
had more time for the formalities in those days, and perhaps more of
a regard for the ways of the Republic too, but the current emperor
and his chamberlain are nothing more than bloody-handed
pragmatists. If the tribune here tells Cleander that he had to have
you all put to death, as the price of success against Meroë, then the
only response he’ll get is a shrug and an open hand, ready to
receive the renewed flow of gold from the port. So I suggest you
work out what amount of coin will be sufficient, combined with your
being allowed to live, to reward you for the difficult task of leading
mules down a road for a month or two. I thought a denarius a day
was a more than generous offer, but if you insist on negotiating
harder we can see where the discussion ends up. Possibly with a
higher rate of pay. Or possibly lower. I’m sure that you can work out
your best negotiating strategy, given the facts before you.’

‘You’re clear as to your orders, Fabius Turbo?’

The tribune stared down from the fort’s walls at the legion’s
hundred-strong cavalry wing that was mustering in the street below
along with an equal strength in men of Demetrius’s newly formed
numerus speculatorum, his mouth twisted into an expression of
severe dissatisfaction. Shipped across the Nilus that morning, each
horse had a rope net filled with brushwood tied to its saddle along
with another of feed, and each rider a coil of rope twenty feet in
length over his shoulder. Turbo returned his attention to Scaurus, but
if his direct stare was intended to make his superior officer feel
uncomfortable there was no outward sign that it was proving
successful.
‘Yes, sir. I’m not happy with what you’ve directed me to do, but I
know what it is that you expect of me. I am to ride east with my
horses, dragging those bundles of brushwood until I reach the Mare
Rubrum. If I see any – and you have stressed the importance of that
word more times than I can recall – any sign of pursuit by the forces
of Meroë, no matter how insignificant, I am to evade to the north as
the terrain allows, but not to abandon the ruse you wish me to
perform, unless and until the enemy are close enough to realise that
the dust they think is the sign of an army on the move is in fact a few
dozen horsemen dragging bushes behind them.’
 Scaurus nodded, looking out over the fort’s walls to the south,
smiling tightly at the note of disdain in his subordinate’s voice.
‘I understand your frustration, Tribune. Just consider the fact that
in performing this distraction, you might be the one to make the
difference between our reaching Premnis unhindered and being
intercepted on our road south. It is imperative that you manage to
lure them as far to the east as possible, in the belief that you are in
fact the better part of a legion, and looking to outflank them by
marching east and then coming at Berenike down the Via Hadriana,
along the coast.’
Turbo nodded his understanding.
‘And if they realise that it is a ruse, it might encourage them to
consider the reasons for such a distraction, and perhaps look south
rather than north.’
‘Yes. So when you reach the coast road, turn north and head for
Myos Hormos. With a decent-sized portion of luck, the king of Meroë
will decide that we’ve decided to safeguard the more northerly port,
and be lulled into thinking we’ve accepted the new status quo.’
‘And you think they’ll be fooled?’
‘If you can stay far enough ahead of their scouts to be no more
than dust on the horizon, then yes, I believe there’s a fair chance of
our achieving that.’
‘And when we reach Myos Hormos? What are my orders then?’
The older man turned to look at him with a faint smile.
‘Trust me, Tribune, I understand the severe disappointment I’m
inflicting on you.’
‘Do you, colleague? Really?’
Scaurus leaned back against the wall’s parapet.
‘It’s not all that long ago, Turbo, that I was just like you. Fizzing
with the violent urge to prove myself a man, to serve the empire and
to die gloriously if that was what was required of me. Indeed I had it
worse than you, because my father died in Germania in what I now
realise to have been the most desperate and unfair of
circumstances. He died at his own hand, because others failed to do
their duty by him and his men. So you can only imagine the
desperate anger that was bubbling in my veins at your age.’
 Turbo shrugged.
‘Which means that you understand my position, and yet you’re still
sending me away to drag bushes through the desert?’
‘Yes. Because it’s important. Because I want it done right, and not
entrusted to a junior officer who might take fright at the first wisp of
dust on the horizon and make a run for it. If such a man were to cut
the ropes and dump the nets, then the ruse, most likely, would
probably fail. Or if the decoys were to retreat from any contact too
fast it might also give the game away, because a legion does not
march at the speed of a trotting horse. What I need from you above
all else, Tribune, is both a cool head and the bloody-minded
determination to perform this vital task to the very best of your
abilities. Fail me in this and you have probably condemned the entire
legion to the sort of glorious but futile death that you’re apparently
determined to seek, except you won’t be there to enjoy it. And,
before you ask, yes, if you can perform this task in the way I’ve
outlined it, if you can put a ring through the king of Meroë’s nose,
and use it to drag his army fifty miles further away from our actual
objective, then you might just be the one man who makes it possible
to steal the initiative back from him. Are you ready for war, Tribune?’
The younger man snapped to attention at the challenge, saluting
formally.
‘Very well, colleague, I accept your orders and will do my utmost to
deliver the result needed!’
‘Good man. But that’s not all.’ The older man grinned at his
subordinate’s questioning look. ‘Don’t look so surprised. It was you
who asked the question as to what you should do once the ruse I’ve
requested of you is completed. And as it happens, I do have a
further request of you. Something that ought to appeal to that Roman
sense of duty and adventure. A mission that could have been
performed by an eager young man like you at any point in the last
five hundred years and earned him a place in Roman history to rank
with the most celebrated of the city’s sons. Why else would I send
half of Demetrius’s men with you? It’s certainly not for the purpose of
dragging bushes around the desert. You’re going to need some
locals, men who know the ground and who have some other special
knowledge that will make perfect sense to you once I’ve explained
the idea I have. It’s a roll of the dice, Turbo, and not without risk, but
if you can make the gamble I have in mind pay off, you might just be
the man who wins this war.’
 7

Marcus, Cotta and Qadir stood and watched as the legion marched
the next day, unheralded and without fanfare, heading south at the
usual brisk pace. Dubnus was the head of the column, continuing his
long disputation with Ptolemy on the subject of the scribe’s refusal to
accept any criticism of the received wisdom of the great scholars,
toleration of which had become the price of the Aegyptian’s tuition
with the blade. With a screen of mounted scouts thrown forward to
guard against an unlikely ambush, in accordance with standing
instructions, the first four cohorts – Scaurus and the rest of his party
at their head – were followed by the artillery train, the legion’s
compliment of bolt throwers augmented by the Koptos garrison’s
eight engines. Each of the deadly machines had been dismantled,
carried piece by piece down from the battlements and loaded onto
carts, leaving the fortress looking strangely denuded in the absence
of their threat. The tribune had patted the disconsolate centurion’s
shoulder as they had watched the last of his artillery being carried
down to the waiting ferries.
‘I know, this makes you feel even more defenceless than before,
but trust me, if the enemy king wanted to take this pimple of a city he
would already have you all in chains. A wise general knows when
not to overextend his advance, and in taking Berenike and the
emerald mines, I’d say he’s given himself enough to digest for the
time being. And once it becomes clear what I’m planning to do, I
think you will see their dust on the horizon as they come hurrying
after me.’
Behind the artillery came the supply train, the legion’s cartloads of
supplies supplemented by hundreds of mules and donkeys, each
one loaded with clay jars of grain taken from the Koptos stores
which, the centurion had been forced to agree, were not needed by
the First Macedonica’s tiny remnant. Behind them marched the three
auxiliary cohorts that had been gathered up from their forts along the
Nilus, one unit of archers and a matched pair of five-hundred-man-
strong infantry cohorts. The auxiliary officers had quickly become
used to Abasi’s direct methods of man management, as each of
them had been collected from their forts along the route, their initial
sense of dismay more than justified given his constant close
attention to their drill, equipment, discipline and battle-readiness.
Finally, in the rearguard position of march, were the Second Legion’s
remaining two cohorts, their senior centurions all too well aware that
the man who ruled their world was more than likely to stride back
down the road towards them from his current place in the column’s
centre where he was unmercifully harassing the auxiliaries. Every
officer present knew that, as was his wont, he would then order a no-
notice deployment into line of battle facing back the way they had
come, simply for the pleasure of watching them sweat through the
complex manoeuvre.
‘The man is a force of nature. I only wish Julius could have met
him, just for one day, if only to see both their faces as they took the
measure of the other.’
Marcus grinned at his friend, watching as the last men of the
second-to-rearmost cohort ground past the spot from which they
were watching the long column’s progress. The road ran along the
great river’s western bank, its ochre line vanishing into the haze of
heat and the dust raised by the vanguard cohorts already miles
further down the road to the south.
‘And who do you think the smart money would have been on?’
‘As to which of them was the more martial?’ The Hamian shook his
head in amusement. ‘Neither of them. In my imagination I see them
bonding over their mutual disdain for the rest of us “poor bastards”
and combining forces to make this army’s life a thing of constant
military joy and wonder.’
They were silent for a moment as the last cohort passed, Peto
marching at their head. The three friends stepped out onto the
cobbles as the Tenth Cohort’s leading ranks swept past, and Marcus
raised his vine stick in salute at Peto, waving away the other man’s
attempt at saluting even as he raised his hand to the brow guard of
his brightly polished helmet.
‘There’ll be none of that, Centurion. We’re all equal here.’
‘But you’ve been a legion tribune. Sese has made it very clear that
we’re to show the appropriate respect.’
‘First Spear Abasi, much as I respect him, is not the master here.
Even a thousand miles by sea and two weeks of march from Rome,
Cleander is the man who determines our respective ranks.’ He
grinned at the other man’s discomfiture. ‘On the day that I am
appointed to a rank which is your superior, Centurion Petosorapis,
you may salute me until your arm hurts, but until then we are equals,
and will treat each other as such. Agreed, Centurion?’
‘Agreed … Centurion.’ The Aegyptian looked at the river to his left
before speaking again, the far bank over a hundred paces distant.
‘So tell me, colleague, if you know the answer to two questions that I
am asking myself. Firstly, I wonder why it is that our commander has
chosen to take the road on the western side of the river, when the
maps tell us that the fortress sits on a high rock on the eastern
bank? Surely that will make capturing the fortress at Premnis so
much harder than were we to approach it on the same side?’
Marcus nodded.
‘Without a doubt, but it also means that we’ll be able to make our
approach with a much smaller risk of attracting the attention of the
enemy. And, given that we’re repeating a trick from history, were the
king of Kush to predict the move and march to give battle, we will
have a wide river between us and their much larger force.’
Peto frowned.
‘But surely they won’t just ignore this side of the river? I know I
wouldn’t.’
‘Indeed, and neither would I. There will be scouts on this side, but
probably in small numbers. It would be both impractical and pointless
to place a force strong enough to fight even a single cohort, when it
is clear that the river’s protection works both ways. All the enemy
really needs is enough notice to be able to move a large enough
force and prevent us from crossing such a difficult obstacle. So there
will be scouts on this side of the river, ready to alert their comrades
on the eastern bank, with horn or flag signals I’d imagine. If we can
find and deal with them we will be able to march south and cross the
river at Premnis unopposed.’
The Aegyptian cocked a sardonic eyebrow at him.
‘So it’s that easy, is it? All that we have to do is detect these
watchers before they see us, overcome them without giving them
time to sound any alarm, and then find some way to persuade their
comrades across the river that all is well? After which we have the
simple task of moving a legion past the spot without some braying
donkey or idiot trumpeter giving our game away?’
Cotta grinned at his fellow centurion.
‘You could have been born a Tungrian, my friend. I knew from the
first moment I met Tribune Scaurus and his men that they had just
the right combination of disbelief in the pronouncements of our
superiors and bloody-minded determination to make whatever
they’re ordered to do work. No matter how far from home this little
jaunt takes us.’
Peto shot him an amused glance.
‘You seem happy enough here, Centurion Lucius. It seemed to
take you no time to adapt to the heat, unlike some of your
colleagues.’
Cotta’s reply was edged, to Marcus’s ear, with unease at the
prospect of his true identity being unearthed, but the words were
jocular enough.
‘Hah! A pig can be happy in whatever shit it’s dropped in. I
suppose what I was trying to say was that every step of this march
takes us further away from everything we understand and further into
the unknown.’
‘Not all of us. There are men among the legion for whom this
march represents a home coming. You will already have noticed the
black faces in our ranks – not many of them, I’ll grant you, but they’re
there nonetheless. Some of them are the children of parents who
came north from Nubia decades ago, but some have made their way
north up the river specifically to join Rome’s army.’
 ‘Can you blame them?’ Qadir interjected, shooting Cotta a glance
to indicate his chance to fade into the conversation’s background.
‘Regular food, dependable coin … the chance to feel like you belong
somewhere … It can be a powerful incentive to service, even if is in
the army of the overlord. And some of them will, I imagine, be
running away from their previous circumstances. Doubtless there are
men just like them in the armies of Meroë.’
Peto nodded his agreement.
‘True enough. Debts to be avoided, woman trouble, the desire to
be something more than one seems fated to be … the usual reasons
for a man to abandon everything he knows and seek a fresh start in
another country.’
Marcus looked down the length of the cohort’s column, smiling at
the sight of a familiar figure walking in the wake of the last century at
the head of the newly formed numerus speculatorum. The Christian
had attempted to argue with Abasi that a name freighted with less
military meaning would be more acceptable to the band of former
soldiers the Christian had brought to the legion’s service, only to run
into the brick wall of the big man’s flat refusal to accept anything that
referred to their beliefs. Looking down his nose at the older man, his
opinion had been swift and final.
‘You volunteered to serve as speculatores. Scouts, spies and
executioners is what you are, so that’s the title you get. Deal with it.’
Demetrius’s purposeful gait at the head of his new command was
instantly recognisable, having clearly lost none of his pugnacious
self-confidence over the legion’s two-week march to the south, and
neither did the privations of the journey seem to have reduced him
physically. Peto followed his amused gaze and nodded agreement.
‘He’s a tough old bastard, isn’t he? I could almost respect him, if it
wasn’t for the nonsense he spouts at anyone who’ll listen, given half
a chance.’
Qadir smiled at the note of disgust in his voice.
‘A religious oddity he may be, but someone must have been
listening to him, judging from how well fed he looks, and the quality
of his footwear. I’d say you have more than a few of his fellow
believers in the one god in your ranks, Centurion? And since we saw
little sign of him while we were in Koptos I can only assume he found
someone to give him shelter. Perhaps these Christians are more
widely spread than we’ve been led to believe?’
‘More fool them.’ The centurion shook his head in disbelief. ‘One
god? What sort of crap is that for a grown man to believe, eh?’
‘Indeed.’ Marcus and Qadir exchanged glances before the Hamian
spoke again. ‘You had another question?’
‘Yes.’ Peto’s brow furrowed. ‘I am confused by the fact that our
cavalry has not joined us on the march, and half of Demetrius’s men.
They may not be strong numerically, but surely they will be important
in the days to come?’
‘Ah. That.’
The centurion looked at Marcus quizzically.
‘Am I to gather that I have asked a question that comes under the
banner of “you don’t need to know”?’
Marcus nodded.
‘That’s perceptive of you, Centurion. As you have quite correctly
guessed, they have been detached to carry out another task. It is
one that I do not envy, but which has been allocated to them in the
absence of any other unit having the same capabilities.’
‘I see. I’m going to take a wild guess that they’ve been ord—’
Whatever observation it was that Peto had been about to make
was lost in the sudden confusion resulting from the auxiliary cohorts
marching ahead of them suddenly, and without warning, deploying to
either side of the road in a shambolic manner that was more melee
than manoeuvre. Barking for his men to halt, Peto stood with the
Tungrians and watched grim-faced as Abasi strode out of the chaos
screaming imprecations at the auxiliary centurions, who were in turn
belabouring their men with their vine sticks and fists, pushing and
shoving them into formation while the veteran centurion barked terse
orders at them without seeming to pause for breath.
‘He’s never quite as happy as when he has the opportunity to
“encourage improvement”, as he puts it. It seems that this is going to
be a long day, for some of us.’
Peto turned and looked down the line of his cohort again, raising
his vine stick over his head in what was presumably a private and
pre-agreed signal to his centurions that excitement and unhappiness
in equal quantities were likely to be delivered to them all shortly. ‘And
all of a sudden I couldn’t give a shit where some pricks on horses
have been sent, or what they’re supposed to be doing. As long as I
don’t end up with Sese in my face that’ll be enough to qualify as a
good day.’

‘Here, put these on, Centurion. They might not be quite as fine as
the equipment you are used to, but they have other qualities you will
come to value just as highly.’
Marcus put the equipment Demetrius had offered him on the side
of the waggon on which his centurion’s equipment would be carried,
unbuckling his sword belt and metal harness before turning to
Dubnus for help in removing his heavy scale armour and placing it
into his travel chest. Pulling off his woollen tunic, he stood naked in
the dusk’s relative cool for a moment before donning the coarsely
woven replacement, then refastened his sword belt and put the
battered bronze helmet Demetrius had passed him on his head, over
a felt arming cap.
‘It fits well enough.’
Demetrius examined the helmet’s set on the Roman’s head with a
look of satisfaction.
‘I guessed your head size and bought it in the market. And now
you look like the rest of us, more like an Aegyptian hired sword than
a Roman, which will be a good thing if we come under scrutiny.
Although perhaps you should add this to your equipment, if you wish
to look a little less like a disguised officer and more like the low-born
man of violence you wish to impersonate.’
He handed Marcus a foot-long length of spear shaft with a heavy
leather strap riveted to one end, the Roman hefting it with a look of
surprise at its unexpected weight.
‘It has been drilled out and filled with molten lead.’ Demetrius
grinned at the Roman’s surprised expression. ‘You still think a man
of my God cannot arm himself against the unworthy?’ He tapped the
cosh hanging from his belt, a heavily stitched sausage of leather.
‘Mine is filled with lead slingshot balls. It is usual for caravan guards
to carry such weapons, for the settlement of disputes where the use
of a knife might tempt fate a little too eagerly. Hit a man with that
hard enough and he won’t get up quickly.’
‘Or possibly at all.’
‘That too. At least with one of these a man can choose how
vigorously to smite the unbeliever, whereas a knife often leaves little
choice between life and death. Suspend it from your belt and let us
be away. I think it would be wise for us to be forty miles down the
road before the army has managed to drag itself onto the cobbles
tomorrow morning.’
He led the Roman through the legion’s camp to where the rest of
his men were waiting, equipped and ready to ride. Dubnus, Cotta
and Qadir were standing to one side, the latter already dressed and
equipped much the same as Marcus.
‘We should all be coming with you, not just this bow-waving
easterner.’
Qadir raised an eyebrow at Dubnus with a faint smile.
‘That’s mild for you, brother. Should you not be challenging my
manhood as well as my chosen weapon?’
‘He has a point though, Marcus.’ Cotta gestured to the gathered
speculatores. ‘They’re not exactly likely to be the most dependable
of allies.’
Marcus spoke before Demetrius had chance to object.
‘They swore the sacramentum. Which means they’re soldiers, and
not for the first time in most of their cases. I think they’ll be every bit
as effective in their roles as our own men, were they here to do the
job, and probably a good deal more efficient in their understanding of
the way this place works. And in any case, we have to divide our
efforts if we’re to be sure that the tribune is to be kept safe. Make
sure there’s one of you beside him at all times.’
‘Is that settled?’ Demetrius looked at Dubnus and Cotta, who,
glancing at each other, nodded their agreement, embraced their
comrades and walked away through the camp towards Scaurus’s
command tent. ‘They have no cause for worry, we will take as good
care of you as would your own men.’ The Greek paused, eyeing
Marcus critically. ‘Indeed it’s not you I’m worried about, but rather my
brothers in the Christos.’
‘Why so?’
The Christian put both hands on his hips, his gaze hard and
uncompromising.
‘We should be straight with each other, Centurion. After your
tribune told me what it was that he wanted my brothers to achieve for
him, and that you would be leading us on this delicate task, I made a
point of finding the two most outspoken men among your party and
offering them drink in return for information.’
Marcus smiled knowingly.
‘A wise choice. I very much doubt you had to make the offer twice.’
‘They were indeed endearingly easy to persuade. I suspect that
they would have been forthcoming even without the bribe, if not quite
as volubly, such is their affection for you. All I had to do was mention
your name, at which point they proceeded to entertain me with story
after story from the campaigns you have fought across the empire.
Heroic victories, dead friends mourned, imperial glory and all the
women and wine a man could want. Or at least that was their version
of events, once they’d managed to live through whatever battle had
just made you and your tribune even more famous than you were
before.’
The Christian raised a questioning eyebrow at Marcus.
‘You don’t seek to deny it, so at least you don’t harbour any pride
in the fact that your reputations are built on other men’s lives. And
your reputation goes before you, Centurion, you and Tribune
Scaurus both. You are an officer of some repute, a war hero, a
deadly swordsman … a man made into a myth by the things that
your men whisper behind your back. Which might well make you as
dangerous to my brothers here as to the enemy.’ He paused for a
moment. ‘So, with no disrespect intended, I have a duty to the men I
have brought to Rome’s service. They are not afraid to risk death,
and I know that my time to die is not at hand, but neither are they
looking to throw their lives away following a hero either. Can you
understand my concern on their behalf?’
Marcus raised a hand to quell Dubnus’s angry retort.
 ‘I respect you for making all of that clear. And to be fair, more than
one of the men who insisted on following me has paid for it with his
life, over the years.’ He turned back to the hard-faced Christian. ‘But
let us make sure we understand each other, Demetrius, because
while I do understand your concerns, there are some unavoidable
facts for us to agree on. Firstly, I command here, and no other man.’
The other man nodded gravely.
‘Granted, Centurion. There can only be one leader.’
‘Secondly, I expect you all to provide me with your expertise. I’ve
fought and won with men like these in half a dozen provinces, but
your men’s experience of Aegyptus might just save me from making
a mistake we’ll all regret.’
‘No man could say fairer. We won’t hold back from telling you if we
think you’re leading us into trouble.’
‘Good. Last, I expect you all to fight like men who’ve taken the
oath, when it comes down to swords and shields. And when the time
comes for me to air these blades I expect to find you at my back with
your own iron ready.’ He turned slowly to play a piercing stare across
the men gathered around them. ‘We are soldiers of Rome,
gentlemen, every last one of us, and we all swore the sacramentum.
It binds us all to the empire’s service, no matter which gods we
worship. Caution, stealth, deception … all of these things can play a
part in the way we go about fulfilling this task we’ve been given, but
when the blood’s flying I expect red-handed savagery from you all.
Any man that doesn’t have that in him should reconsider his part in
this before it’s too late.’
Silence descended on them, and Marcus waited patiently until
Demetrius nodded.
‘No man here can deny that duty to the emperor, given we took his
coin and said the words. If you lead us into a fight, especially one
we’ve had a part in choosing, you will indeed find me at your side.
After all, where better to see all that fancy swordplay I’ve heard so
much about?’
Marcus nodded, holding out a hand to the other man who, after a
moment’s faintly startled contemplation, shook it firmly.
 ‘So, given it’s fairly certain that there’ll be watchers posted along
the road south, what would you and your brothers recommend as
our best approach to finding them?’
Demetrius shrugged.
‘We’ve been discussing just that all day, Centurion. And it is fair to
say that there is more than one point of view. On the one hand, there
are a good number of us that favour advancing down the road at
night, as one group. That way, when they challenge us, we’ll be
strong enough to get the better of them, no matter how many of them
there are.’
‘And the alternate point of view?’
‘Is that if there are too many of us on the road, the men who will be
watching for any sign of an advance down this side of the river will
keep their heads down and let us pass, then signal a warning to their
comrades on the other side, once we’re out of sight. And that opinion
comes with a suggested tactic to counter it.’
‘Let me guess.’ Marcus shot the men gathered around him a hard
smile, judging from their expressions who favoured this second,
infinitely more risky option. ‘A small group of us to lead the way –
enough to put up a fight, too few to scare anyone watching for an
advance into hiding from us.’
‘Exactly.’ Demetrius grimaced at the prospect. ‘Half a dozen men
at the most, men who are not afraid to take a proper risk, rather than
just ride around in a herd and frighten off the scouts we’re looking
for.’
The Roman nodded slowly, considering the idea.
‘How many men would you have sent across to this bank, if you
wanted to keep an eye on the road south at all times of the day?’
The Aegyptian thought for a moment.
‘Two or three men to watch at any time, the same number or more
to search for firewood and keep an eye on the desert to their rear,
just in case, and then—’
‘Just in case of what?’
‘This is southern Aegyptus, Centurion. Just in case some desert
tribe or other decides that taking a few Kushite prisoners would be
good for business. Just in case some bright young Roman has the
idea that sneaking around away from the road to take them
unawares might be a good idea. A man who makes sure that his
back is covered lasts a lot longer in this part of the world. So, two or
three watching, a few sleeping, a few cooking and tending the fire
and generally keeping an eye open. Ten men. Perhaps fifteen. And
they’ll have chosen a nice vantage point from where they can see
the road for miles, with somewhere to camp out of sight and a tidy
little ambush point close by. Which means that when they jump us
there’ll be no warning, just men in front of us and men behind us.
And if they pick their spot carefully enough, we won’t even have time
to dismount before they’re on us.’
‘And we can’t have reinforcements close enough behind us to
even up the numbers, because the watchers will see them coming.’
Marcus nodded, deep in thought. ‘I can see the point of those among
your men who believe that it would be suicide to advance in anything
less than enough strength to resist such an ambush. Although that
clearly isn’t an option if it means that the men we’re looking for will
simply give the alarm to their brothers on the other side of the river.
But, on the other hand, scouting without enough strength to prevail in
a fight against these hidden watchers would also risk failure. Neither
of these options seems to be the right choice, to me.’
Demetrius inclined his head in agreement.
‘And so you see the argument that has been troubling us since we
accepted Rome’s gold to serve once again. But we must choose,
and now, for to sit here discussing the subject for much longer will
render the entire discussion meaningless, will it not?’
‘Yes. But I have the feeling that we’re missing something here.
Were none of you born on this side of the river?’
‘These two.’ The Christian pointed to a pair of men within the
group. ‘But they were born less than thirty miles from here. And it is
two hundred miles to Premnis. The fortress at Premnis was allowed
to fall under the control of Kush long ago, and any knowledge of the
road that runs so far into their territory has long since been lost to
us.’
‘What of the trade caravans that deal with the kingdom?’
 ‘They are frequent, or were, until this war began, but they all cross
the desert from Berenike to the border city of Souan at the river’s
first cataract, where their goods are traded with Kushite merchants
and then shipped up the river to the kingdom. This part of the river is
an unknown to us, I am afraid.’
Marcus stood in silent thought for a moment, then smiled to
himself.
‘I have it!’ He turned to walk back up the column, calling back over
his shoulder. ‘Wait here while I go to speak to First Spear Abasi! I
suspect he’s in possession of exactly what we need to solve this
problem!’

‘You’re sure this is the man you want to speak with, Centurion?’
Marcus smiled encouragingly at the soldier in question, who had
clearly already decided that keeping his mouth shut and staring
fixedly to his front was probably his best hope of surviving an
unexpected summons by Abasi without earning a flogging.
‘We’ll soon see, First Spear. Does he speak Greek?’
‘He’d better, or I’ll be sorely disappointed in both the man himself
and his centurion, won’t I, Petosorapis?’
Peto, knowing better than to attempt a witticism in front of an
enlisted man, simply nodded curtly and acknowledged the point.
‘Yes, First Spear.’
‘Does this man speak the Greek language?’
‘Passably, First Spear.’
Abasi turned back to Marcus.
‘It seems that disappointment has been averted. What would you
like to know from him, Centurion Corvus?’
‘Soldier …?’
The hapless man took a minute to realise that a Roman officer
was actually speaking to him, recognition dawning too slowly for him
to avoid being prodded with the gold-capped end of Abasi’s vine
stick.
‘Answer the question.’
‘My name is Moise, Centurion, sir!’
 ‘A simple “centurion” will be enough, Soldier Moise. Centurion
Petosorapis tells me that you were born well to the south of here?’
The soldier replied quickly, eager to avoid a further application of
Abasi’s badge of office.
Yes, Centurion. I am the son of a boatman, and grew up in service
to his owner, who was the captain of a ship trading between the first
cataract and Koptos. The river is divided into sections by cataracts,
which hinder vessels from passing from one section to another.’
‘I see. And you ran away from this captain?’
‘No, Centurion. He freed me when I turned fifteen years of age, at
my father’s request. He said my father had given him thirty years of
faithful service as his slave, and that he had earned my freedom.’
‘He must have been a man of rare honour. And you came north to
join the army.’
Moise nodded.
‘There is little choice for a man on the Nilus in these days. If I had
stayed I would have had to choose between working on the river or
the land it waters when it floods.’
Marcus looked at Abasi, who nodded his agreement.
‘The great plague. With so many dead, just growing enough food
to survive on became paramount. What is it that you want from this
man?’
Marcus explained the dilemma that his speculatores had outlined
to him.
‘How well do you remember the western bank of the river, Soldier
Moise?’
The soldier smiled ruefully.
‘As well as I know the lines and scars on my hands, Centurion. I
spent the first fifteen years of my life travelling up and down the river
from Koptos to Souan, and back. I must have made that journey five
hundred times.’
‘And you know the land on either side?’
‘Of course, Centurion. We would moor up every night, when it
became too dark to sail in safety. A young boy will always explore,
when his duties are complete.’
Marcus nodded.
 ‘Our enemy will be alert to exactly the strategy that Tribune
Scaurus is attempting to carry out, and will have sent scouts to
watch out for the legion marching south down the river. Can you
think of any place where such a scouting mission would be best
accomplished from?’
The dark-skinned soldier nodded without hesitation.
‘A rocky peak known to those who live around it as Thieves’ Rock,
Centurion. It is a week’s march from here, more or less. From its top
a keen-eyed man can see for thirty miles on a clear day. And most
days are clear, on the river.’
‘And a legion on the move will glitter like stars fallen to earth, with
all that polished iron. Not to mention the dust we kick up on the
march.’ Abasi nodded grimly. ‘Yes, if a man can see thirty miles, he
will be in no doubt as to what he is seeing when a legion comes into
view.’
‘Indeed. I will need to borrow this soldier, with your permission,
First Spear.’
Abasi nodded without hesitation, turning his forbidding stare on the
Roman.
‘Permission granted, Centurion. Just make sure you bring him
back undamaged. We will need every man we have, when we get to
Premnis.’
 8

‘So what was it that converted you from your life as a soldier to …’
Marcus paused fractionally, searching for the right word. The two
men had taken the first watch after a long day in the saddle during
which the speculatores had outpaced the legion marching behind
them by a good thirty miles. The scouting detachment’s men were
rolled up in their blankets and, for the most part, already asleep,
leaving the two officers to talk quietly in the silence of the night.
‘A man of God? A zealot?’ Demetrius shot a hard smile at him
over the fire’s flames. ‘You’re not quite sure what to call me, are you,
Centurion?’
The Roman nodded, amused by the sardonic tone in his
companion’s voice.
‘I’m not even sure that you know the answer to that question
yourself. You seem an uncertain mixture to me, a man seeking his
identity. You tell yourself you’re changed from the days when you
were hunting the men with whom you now identify, but look at
yourself now and tell me that’s the truth.’
The Christian laughed softly, looking down at his mail shirt and
military belt.
‘These? This mockery of military equipment?’ He leaned forward,
his smile hardening to a wolf-like grin in the dim firelight. ‘I was a ten-
badge centurion, before I saw the light and came to Our Lord. I had
the silver gilt helmet and scale armour, leather polished to a shine
you could see your face in – by my slave, of course – and the gold I
paid for my sword would have fed a family of ten for as many years.
Believe me, I wasn’t just any centurion, brother Marcus, I was the
centurion, the swaggering, vain, boastful veteran of a dozen battles. I
had a sense of self-worth that would have put Abasi to shame, and a
tendency to lay about me with my vine stick if even the smallest thing
wasn’t exactly as I expected it.’
‘One of those.’
‘Yes, one of those, spit polished to a gleaming shine and so full of
my own importance it’s a wonder I didn’t burst.’ The Christian leaned
forward, eager to emphasise his point. ‘I was a brutalist, pure and
simple. A bully and a sadist, conditioned by the army, and by war, by
life itself. No prisoners taken, no mercy offered. When my legatus
told me to go and hunt down the Christians who were causing such
an upset among the local population, I didn’t stop to ask him what he
wanted doing to them. It was simply obvious to me that they all had
to die. Religious perverts was all they were, and the means of their
punishment were as clear as day to me, given the manner of their
leader’s death. My legatus chose wisely in picking me, although I
sometimes wonder if his selection was driven by my first spear’s
desire for a little peace and quiet …’ He grinned at Marcus. ‘I was an
unpleasant mixture of piss and vinegar, in those days, and I doubt
many of my comrades were all that happy when I walked into the
mess. Or sad to see the back of me, for that matter.’
He leaned back, stretching luxuriously in the fire’s heat.
‘Had any other of them been chosen for the task, they would have
seen it as their opportunity for an easy life. Ride around a bit, issue a
few dire threats, scourge any follower of the one true faith foolish or
slow enough to allow himself to be captured, but generally have a
soft time of it. Not me though. I took the nastiest half-dozen men I
knew with me, and told them that what they got up to with anyone we
took prisoner would stay between us, if they helped me to sniff out
the bastards. And believe me, brother Marcus, when I tell you that
we became expert at sniffing them out. Dozens of them, some
bleating for mercy, as I saw it then, some sticking their chins out and
telling me to get on with it, all of them crucified and left to die as an
example to others, their women and children used hard and then
sold into slavery for the most part.’
‘Left to die?’
Demetrius nodded.
 ‘We stayed and watched the first few, to make sure they paid the
full price for membership of what we called their dirty little cult, but
have you any idea how boring a crucifixion is to watch? Trust me, I
became an expert. Once you’ve nailed a man up there you have to
settle down for a day or two of watching the poor bastard choking to
death, standing up on the nails through his ankles to let himself
breathe, screaming with the resulting pain, then slumping back onto
the nails through his wrists, all the time babbling away to his god to
take him. It’s accepted practice to break their legs, of course, and
stop them from pushing up on the ankle nails and let them suffocate,
and they were forever calling to us to pierce them with our spears,
like the soldiers that nailed up the Christos did to show him a little
mercy, but that just seemed to miss the point of crucifying them in
the first place. So we just nailed them up and marched off, warning
the locals what would happen if we caught them helping the
bastards.’
‘Surely once you were gone their fellow Christians would have
taken them down?’
Demetrius nodded, with a grimace of self-disgust.
‘Of course, that became part of the game, as we saw it, once we
were hardened to their suffering. We’d march out, wait a while and
then march right back in again to catch the locals in the act of taking
them down, so that we could punish them just as hard, rob them,
rape them, then nail the Christians up again. Or sometimes we’d
march out and keep going, just leave them to it, so that nobody could
ever be sure whether we’d be back or not. I once hid in the hills and
watched the occupants of a village argue with each other for the best
part of a day as to whether to get one poor man down from his cross,
while he begged them to either free him or kill him. And more than
once we found men that had been released from their torture, their
wounds healed, who’d taken up with life where we’d found them.’
‘And?’
‘What do you think? We nailed them up again, of course. There
was no hiding place from imperial justice, not the way that me and
my gang of conscienceless bastards exercised it. And the best thing
of all was that it was all legal, approved by the local legatus. We
would have been stopped eventually, of course, when word of what
we were doing got to the governor. He was one of those soft, letter-
writing gentlemen, forever asking the emperor for guidance, and of
course Marcus Aurelius wasn’t one for religious persecution. But life
intervened first. Or rather God did.’
He stared at the fire bleakly for a moment.
‘It was in a village, miles from anywhere. My band of thugs had
persuaded me to take them back there after six months, and I knew
why, of course. They wanted to revisit the family of the blacksmith
we’d caught sheltering Christians the previous time we’d been there.
His wife and daughters had all paid the price for his humanity, as you
can imagine, and my men had returned to the subject of how much
they’d enjoyed that day time after time, so I’d known the request was
coming at some point. And frankly, brother Marcus, it hadn’t
bothered me one little bit. A repeat visit would help to cement our
reputation as men who weren’t prepared to let that sort of disloyalty
to Rome slide. So we went back. They saw us coming, of course,
and I can only imagine the fear they felt as we marched into that sad
little collection of rude dwellings. Two men held the blacksmith at
spear point while the rest of them took their time with his women,
and I left them to it, kicked open the door of the tavern and
demanded to be fed. And then it happened.’
He fell silent again, for so long that Marcus had begun to think he
was unable to continue with the story when he spoke again.
‘I was lounging on a wooden bench with a cup of wine and a half-
eaten loaf of bread when the smith’s wife walked in with her oldest
daughter. Both of them were hollow-eyed and hobbling from the
brutality the thugs who had raped them – with my full permission,
remember – had visited on them. The woman was carrying a small
bundle, wrapped in rags, and as she crossed the room towards me
something in her eyes froze the blood in my veins. She was lost,
beyond fear. Devastated. And whatever it was that had broken her
had also made her invulnerable.’ He shook his head at the memory.
‘The man I was, right up to that instant, would have stood up and
slapped her into the corner of the room, but I just sat and watched
her walk towards me with a feeling of dread. I was rooted to the
bench, my feet as heavy as lead and my heart pounding so hard I
could feel it in my chest.’
He looked up at Marcus, and the entreaty in his eyes was palpable
even in the fire’s dim light.
‘She put the bundle on the table in front of me and opened it with a
contemptuous flick of her hand, her eyes boring into mine. It was a
baby. A tiny, barely formed thing, dead and still on the table, covered
with the blood of its birthing. The youngest daughter had been six
months pregnant, carrying the child of one of my men, obviously, and
they’d treated her so roughly that she had miscarried. I looked down
at the poor little thing, begotten in violence and murdered in the
name of Rome by a repeat of the disgusting act that had given it life,
and something in me just …’ he swallowed, ‘broke. And it let the light
in, Marcus, it allowed me to see, and to feel, for the first time in my
life, or so it seemed. I sat there motionless, while the women turned
away and left me with their dead child. And I cried. Me, a man who
hadn’t shed a tear in thirty years. I sat there, and I wept helplessly.’
His face hardened, his ire subconsciously surfacing with the
memory. ‘But then I stopped crying, and my despair was replaced
with anger. With fury. Anger at myself, as I realised what an animal I
had become, and fury at the depravity I had allowed the men who
followed me to inflict on the innocent. The bestial cruelty they had
visited on people whose only crime had been to care for their fellow
men. And I decided to walk away from it all, then and there. But first I
killed my men, to atone for their sins.’
‘All six of them?’
The Christian nodded.
‘All of them. Of course it was an act of practicality too. If I’d left
them alive, they would have only pursued me, and tried to arrest me
for desertion, and for the chance to strip me of my money, of course.
But most of all I killed them because they were animals, not fit to be
allowed to live and continue to practise their bestiality. I got up and
walked across to the smith’s forge, swaggering like the man I had
been, to deceive the men restraining him that I was still the same
bastard. I took up a hammer as if to inspect it, and then, without any
warning, used it to stove in their heads, the first before he even knew
what was happening, the other while he was goggling at the other’s
smashed face. The smith jumped up and reached for a weapon, of
course, but I put up a hand to restrain him, and it was as if Our
Lord’s power flowed from me to quiet him. I took their spears and
went to find the other four, still laughing and joking around the village
well about what they’d just done, and I put the first two down before
they even realised what was happening – one with a spear through
the back, the other as he turned to see what was happening and
took the second throw through his chest. And then I drew my sword
and went at the last two.’
He smiled at Marcus, baring his teeth in a hard, wolfish grin that
revealed the soldier underneath his drab clothing and other-
worldliness.
‘If they’d stood together they might have beaten me, even though
I’d made sure to spear the most competent fighters first, but one of
them saw the look on my face and took to his heels. I killed the other
while he was still caught between fight and flight, gutted him with a
single stroke, and then chased the last man down on the road and
left him to die in a puddle of his own blood, with my sword sheathed
in his back. And then I just walked away. Dumped my armour and
equipment at the roadside and left my men to the tender mercies of
the villagers. I heard a few months later that they were left to die
where they’d fallen, unloved and unmourned, and I rejoiced in those
cold, lonely deaths. I still do.’
Marcus stared at him levelly for a moment before speaking.
‘And do you feel that you have achieved some measure of …’
He groped for the right word, but Demetrius spoke it for him.
‘Absolution? The forgiveness of my wrongdoings?’ He shook his
head. ‘I do not know. But I do know that I will fight for my God with all
my strength from that day until the day of my death, and that I will be
judged for my acts as is only right and fitting. As, Centurion, will we
all. Can you say for certain that you have earned a place in heaven?’
The Roman shook his head.
‘I do not seek a place with your god. I have other desires for the
afterlife.’
 ‘I know. Your men told me of your loss, and clearly you wish to be
with your wife again when this life comes to an end. But consider
this: if she was as good a person as has been intimated to me, and if
you wish to see her again, then you must seek to join her in heaven,
where she will surely be waiting for you. Our God will have seen the
light that shone within her, and will have gathered her to his side, as
he does with all his children whose actions in this life deserve such a
reward. You can be reunited, but only by dedicating your life to his
son the Christos.’

‘You’re sure you want to go through with this, Tribune?’

Turbo glanced at the man lying on the rock alongside him, the
leader of that part of the numerus speculatorum that had
accompanied his legion cavalry in their decoy ride to the east and
then north. Judged to be a success by the two-hundred-strong unit of
regular cavalrymen and their irregular comrades, mainly because
they had managed to perform the ruse without being caught by the
enemy horsemen they had seen following them in the distance, they
had returned to Koptos to rest their horses before setting out again.
This time, however, they had headed to the west, as instructed by
Scaurus in his last discussion with the younger man. Now the two
men were watching their objective from the vantage point of a rocky
ridge, and even Turbo was forced to admit to himself that the
supplementary task he had been charged with was every bit as
daunting as anything he might have wished for in a quieter moment.
But any qualms he might be feeling were, of course, not to be shared
with his subordinate.
‘Do I want to go through with this? Of course, Decurion! It would
seem somewhat pointless to have come all this way across the
desert only to turn around and head back to the Nilus without
carrying out the task requested of us, would it not?’
The cavalry officer nodded dourly.
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be
ready. Sir. Not that I ever thought I’d be saying that lying down on a
rocky hill looking at a load of tents.’
 ‘That’s the spirit.’ Turbo stared out at the Blemmyes encampment
for a moment longer before worming his way backwards until he was
out of sight from the camp. ‘And there’s no time like the present.
Remember, I want the speculatores to lead us in, as they’re probably
known to these desert raiders and therefore less likely to have
arrows shot at them than our legion cavalry.’
‘You make it sound so enticing, Tribune.’
The younger man grinned at his deputy.
‘Come along, man! It isn’t every day that you’re handed the
chance to be a history maker!’
The cavalryman looked at him with an expression verging on
disbelief.
‘If I might speak freely, Tribune?’ Turbo gestured for him to
continue. ‘The problem with being part of history, I’ve noticed from all
the stories I’ve heard on the subject, is that history tends to be full of
men who died before their time was up. Glorious victory? Plenty of
dead, more on their side than ours. Horrific defeat? The same, just
this time most of them on our side. Taking part in the making of
history, it seems to me, is no more than a succession of
opportunities to get yourself killed. Or worse.’
‘True enough. And quite fairly expressed as well. But the thing is,
Decurion …’ Turbo lowered his voice conspiratorially, ‘we don’t
actually get much choice in the matter. We swear the sacramentum,
and from that point the jolly old empire just assumes that we’re all
perfectly happy with the idea of dying – gloriously, horrifically or just
plain tediously. So it seems we’re rather stuck with the fact that
death is a part of the job we’re paid to do.’
The decurion raised an eyebrow.
‘And, if you’ll pardon me for saying it, sir, I think that’s just the way
you like it.’
The tribune smiled brightly back at him.
‘No guts, no glory, eh, Decurion? It’s as true now as it was all
those years ago when the great men of the republic built what was to
become the empire. Rome stands or falls entirely on the willingness
of its young men – and indeed those not quite so young any more –
to risk their lives in her name. Which, I’m neither happy nor sad to
say, is where you and I find ourselves.’
The older man looked at him in silence for a moment, then lifted
his right hand in salute.
‘As I said, Tribune, we will do what is ordered, and at every
command we will be ready.’
Turbo grinned at him, shaking his head in amusement.
‘And as I said, Decurion, that’s the spirit! So, shall we go and see if
these Blemmyes remember me from the last time I was here? And,
for that matter, if they do remember me, whether their memories are
fond or not? And remember, you’re not going to war, you’re simply
escorting a painfully young and irrepressibly cheerful Roman officer.
Even persuading these fellows to listen to what I have to propose is
going to be an exercise in subtlety, and having you scowling over my
shoulder isn’t going to help matters!’

‘There it is. And your Nubian was right; it is indeed the perfect
lookout post.’
Marcus nodded agreement with his companion’s opinion, staring
hard at the peak rising two hundred feet above the Nilus’s softly
lapping water, silhouetted against the dusk’s dark blue sky. In the
last light of the setting sun, the red orb having already sunk beneath
the western horizon, the river was a ribbon of pale pink tinged grey
to their left, running away from them to the south. On the far bank,
just visible in the failing light, a cluster of rough huts confirmed the
presence of the farming community that Moise had warned them to
expect, the likely base of operations for whatever force had been
sent to watch over the roads down both sides of the river. It was two
days since the Christian’s tale of his conversion, and at noon of the
second day the bulk of the speculatores had been left to make camp
while Marcus, Demetrius, Qadir and Moise had made their way
cautiously southwards, at a pace that the native soldier had believed,
correctly, would bring them to a spot with a view of their objective
towards the end of the day.
‘If they’re here, then whoever it was that made the choice was
nobody’s fool.’
 Demetrius stared across the five miles of riverbank that separated
them from the lookout post that the Nubian legionary had called
‘Thieves’ Rock’, and Marcus realised that they were both crouching
to stay out of view from its top, despite the twin protections of both
distance and the deep shadow of the comparatively minor peak at
whose foot they had their first clear sight of their objective. The
Christian sighed, shaking his head in evident disquiet.
‘It is as Moise told us it would be. A marching legion will stick out
like lice on a blanket as far as the eye can see from that thing.’
‘They might not be there.’
Even as he spoke, the Roman realised the likelihood of his
statement being incorrect, and his companion shook his head with a
small smile.
‘You don’t believe that, Centurion, and neither do I. If that’s the
lookout post of choice for this part of the river, then I would wager
everything I have that they will be up there. The question now is how
we are to get to them without their realising that they are being
hunted, and without giving the game away to the men on the other
side.’
They waited in silence while the last hint of light left the sky above
them, and the landscape’s shades of grey deepened and merged
into deep black, the hills silhouetted against the cloudless night sky’s
blazing arch of stars. In the absence of any moonlight, the river’s
course past the outcrop on which he and Demetrius were crouching
was no more than a gentle, glittering ripple of starlight on moving
water, and the desert’s rocky surface was all but invisible in the
gloom. The four men had ridden south for four days, each man
alternating between two horses to enable the beasts to be walked at
twice the pace of a marching man, while the spare mounts carried
the lesser weight of their supplies. Stopping frequently to water their
animals in the day’s heat, they had nevertheless managed forty
miles a day, passing farming settlements scattered down the river’s
western bank whose occupants lived on the margin between river
and desert. The fecund soil, the result of yearly flooding, Moise had
explained, nevertheless required constant irrigation to produce a
crop. Every mile had taken them deeper into territory that was
effectively the frontier between Rome and Kush, land of little real
value to either compared to the riches and prestige to be gained
from possession of Berenike, a reality which explained the
comparative lack of interest in it by the army of Meroë.
‘Do you see that?’
Marcus followed the other man’s pointing hand, just making out
the faint flicker of light he was indicating by the side of the column of
rock, at the spot where the soldier had told them to expect any
watchers to set up their camp.
‘Yes. I see the faintest glow. It is barely visible, but there
nonetheless. Firelight reflected from a rock surface, perhaps. If we
hadn’t known where to look, I doubt we would have noticed it, but it
can only be a watch fire, positioned so as not to be seen from the
north.’
The two men turned away from their vantage point and walked
back down to the advance party’s camp, where Qadir and Moise
were tending a cook-fire carefully hidden from view in a hollow
screened by bushes, in the shadow of the rock between them and
the natural lookout tower, Marcus patting the latter on the back in
congratulation.
‘It seems that you have found the enemy lookout position for us,
Moise.’
The soldier had drawn a rough map of the place where he
suspected the Kushite watchers would lie in wait for them the
previous evening, scratching lines into a flat rock with the point of an
old knife. His illustration, showing both a high vantage point close to
the river and a tumble of fallen boulders scattered about the road to
provide plentiful concealment, had set heads nodding, as had his
description.
‘There are stories told about this place. Thieves’ Rock was
infamous for being a haunt for desert Blemmyes, who would mount a
watch from it and spring ambushes on unwary travellers. And so it
was that an alternate route began to be used around the peak by
those with no choice but to pass it, a harder road than the one that
runs beside the river but without any concealment for robbers to wait
in ambush.’
 ‘And you know this alternate road?’
The soldier had sounded less sure, when faced with such a
challenge.
‘I have seen it in the daylight, and it is clear enough. In the
darkness, without a moon, it would be harder to follow. I cannot
guarantee not to go astray.’
Marcus turned to Demetrius.
‘So, now that we know where the enemy is waiting for us, do you
think we can do this in one night?’
The older man thought for a moment, his expression invisible in
the night’s gloom.
‘I see little alternative. But if we fail to reach their hiding place
before the sun rises we will be without any hope of avoiding
detection, if the men waiting for us are alert.’
‘And this mountain is what, five miles distant?’
‘At least. And we have no more than eight hours to cross that
distance, take the watchers unawares, and then discover whether
they have a method of signalling to their comrades on the other side
that all is well each morning.’
Marcus mused for a moment.
‘We could simply conceal ourselves here and watch them for the
day …’
The veteran soldier sounded amused.
‘Indeed we could. But your voice tells me that you do not favour
such a tactic. A day lost now might just be the day needed to win the
campaign. And yet it seems the prudent thing to do.’ He turned to
Marcus, his concern evident more in the tone of his voice than his
almost invisible features. ‘We can easily become separated and
spread out if we attempt to cross a desert at night, unable to
coordinate our attack. And once we are committed to attack we have
no choice but to go through with it. I can imagine a dozen ways that
such a gamble might go wrong, and it will only take the watchers a
moment to raise the alarm that will destroy your tribune’s strategy.
But I do not suggest inaction.’
‘So what is it that you do suggest?’
 ‘Consider, Centurion. Those men will have been watching the road
for weeks now, if the Kushites have planned this theft of Roman
territory in the methodical manner we suspect. They will have a
camp routine, their boredom disturbed only by the occasional local
traveller, with food being brought to them across the river at
intervals. Which, by the way, could still undo any plan. Even if we
manage to take the men on this side by surprise, some fool rowing
across the river first thing tomorrow with fresh supplies would spoil
everything.’
Marcus nodded his understanding.
‘And so it seems that we must risk everything on a roll of the dice.’
Demetrius laughed softly.
‘I have enjoyed, shall we say, something of a charmed life,
Centurion. In my early days serving under the eagle, before I was set
to persecute the Christians, I fought in the German wars, and was
fortunate enough not merely to survive but to be singled out for
praise and promotion. I rose from the ranks to hold a vine stick like
yours. Later, with the war settled and the likelihood of further
promotion dispelled by the peace, I was selected to join the ranks of
the frumentarii, acting as my legatus’s eyes and ears wherever there
might be trouble fomenting in his legion’s operational area. And
finally, after more than a year of, shall we say, vigorous persecution
of my brothers and sisters in the Christos, when I saw the light and
decided to leave the empire’s service, I did so, as I have told you, in
a manner that would have been viewed as cause for the most brutal
of executions, had I ever been captured. And in all that time,
Centurion, through pitched battles whose stink of blood and shit
pervaded the air for weeks after, and spying operations that often
sent me hundreds of miles from my legion, and in all the years of
being a hunted man that followed, I never once suffered even a
scratch. And now …’
‘Now you find that the good fortune you have enjoyed your entire
adult life demands that you take this risk, with the potential to end in
your death?’
The Christian shook his head with a sad smile.
 ‘Not quite. The charmed life that I lived before I became a servant
of the one true God has been replaced by the favour of Our Lord. He
will protect his devoted servant, and give strength to my arm to smite
the unbeliever, if it is necessary to save the souls of men who are yet
to come to him. But we may not all live to see the sun rise over the
horizon in the morning.’

‘You believe this will work? Truly?’

Demetrius nodded at Marcus’s whispered question, replying
equally softly. The two men could see each other’s faces in the grey
light of dawn, and the looming shapes of the rocks and boulders
strewn across the rocky ground to either side of the road had
changed from the night’s barely visible shadows to discernible
shapes.
‘Trust me, Centurion. We only have to be patient and wait.’
The four men of the scouting party had made their way from the
outcrop to the base of Thieves’ Rock over the course of the night,
each of them holding a piece of rope tied to Demetrius’s wrist to
avoid any of them becoming lost in the gloom of the moonless night,
their hobnails muffled by empty feed bags. Navigating solely by
moving cautiously towards the peak’s silhouette, a black tooth
against the stars which had gradually loomed in their view as they
had drawn closer to it, they had covered the distance from their
hiding place to its foot without giving the unseen watchers at its top
any signal as to their presence. By the time that the impending dawn
had started to lighten the eastern horizon with its first, almost
imperceptible, light, they had found hiding places at the mountain’s
foot among the debris of thousands of years of rockfalls, and
camouflaged themselves against any scrutiny from above.
‘Now you know why these men wear the scarves that your men
found so funny back in Koptos.’
Marcus nodded, remembering the amusement his men had
displayed on seeing the apparently dirty-clothed bodyguards for the
first time. The party was crouched beside one of the larger boulders,
the mottled headscarves draped across their upper bodies rendering
them all but invisible. They sat in silence, Demetrius closing his eyes
in a studied show of patience, his breathing slowing as he relaxed
into an almost trance-like state. Moments passed, the rocks around
them gradually lightening from dark grey to a paler shade, and when
Marcus risked a quick glance from beneath his camouflage at the
sky above them he saw that the vivid blaze of stars had dimmed to
the point that only the brightest were visible. The older man opened
an eye in response to the soft sounds of the movement, speaking so
softly that his words were barely audible to the men around him.
‘The far side of the river will be visible by now, or very soon. And
when it is, I expect that the men above us will communicate with
their comrades.’
After a few more moments’ wait, a horn sounded distantly from the
other bank, and Demetrius peeped out from beneath his veil,
pointing upwards at the peak’s summit.
‘Do you see?’
Just visible over the crag’s edge, a flag was being displayed, the
rippling white fabric crackling in the still air as it was waved back and
forth. After a moment the trumpet blared again from the river’s far
bank, and the bodyguard put out a hand to order his men to remain
in their places before glancing swiftly over the rock behind which
they were concealed. He ducked back into cover and replaced the
scarf.
‘Their comrades on the far side are waving a single flag in reply …’
The activity above their heads intensified as the watchers raised
another banner and waved both to and fro, their passage through the
air making the material flutter and billow. ‘And the men above are
waving two. So there, Centurion, is their code. Whatever number of
flags their brothers on the far side display, they add one, for today at
least.’
Marcus tipped his head in acknowledgment of the point.
‘That is indeed a good start. And now …?’
Demetrius grinned.
‘Follow me, while I follow my nose.’
He led them silently through the boulder field, sniffing the air with
each careful footstep, until he detected the aroma he had been
waiting for, and his nose wrinkled in disgust.
 ‘Here. This is where they come to defecate. Take cover in the
rocks behind me, and be very still.’
Taking the heavy cosh from his belt, he gestured for his men to
ready their own weapons as he looped the thick, braided leather
cord attached to the weapon’s base over his wrist. Then, sliding into
the cover of a large rock, he became immobile, as still as the stone
itself, while Marcus and the other men hid themselves as ordered.
After a few moments, the sound of hobnails on stone became
audible, their sound strengthening as the boots’ owner made his way
down the crag’s shallow lower slope, falling silent as whoever it was
entered the sandier ground around the scattered boulders.
Demetrius nodded to Marcus, tapping the bludgeon meaningfully
before putting a finger to his lips to command absolute silence. The
soft crunch of sand underfoot died away, and after a moment a soft
groan of relief reached the scouts’ ears. Nodding to Marcus,
Demetrius risked a swift peep around the rock behind which he was
hiding, then stepped swiftly out, raising the cosh and then swinging it
in a vicious arc that ended with a dull thump as the heavy bludgeon
connected with its target. Emerging from cover at the bodyguard’s
beckoning, Marcus saw a man’s body sprawled face down across
the rocky ground, and watched as Demetrius swung the weapon
again to break his victim’s neck at the base of his skull.
‘Help me get his clothes off.’ Turning the body over, he grimaced in
disgust at the discovery that the lookout had fallen onto the
excrement that he had been expelling, his tunic smeared with the
foul substance. ‘Nothing to be done about it. And in fact I can use it
as a distraction.’
He pulled on the noisome garment, then removed the sound-
muffling fabric from his boots and looked up the rocky slope.
‘Do you smell that? They’re cooking the morning meal up there,
which means that there will be at least one other man to deal with,
apart from those still asleep. Follow me, but stay hidden until you
hear me attack, then come in behind me quickly, but quietly! Let us
pray that the watchers aren’t so keen to get their breakfast that they
decide to start heckling the men below them while we’re at it.’
 He set off up the steps that had been crudely cut into the rocky
slope, heading for a flattish section of rock a third of the way up the
crag whose surface was invisible to them due to its elevation.
Reaching the shelf’s edge he set the scarf over his head to provide
as much disguise as possible and then stepped out onto the rock
platform.
‘Gah!’
The convincing note of disgust in his voice as he wordlessly
indicated the state of his tunic made Marcus smile despite the
tension, and his grin widened as the scout hawked and spat in
disgust, Demetrius using the classic tactic of distraction as he closed
the gap between himself and whoever was tending the cook-fire. The
cook’s response was unintelligible to Marcus, but its softly spoken
urgency spoke volumes as to the other man’s desire to avoid waking
the camp’s remaining occupants. Marcus stormed over the shelf’s
edge as the sound of Demetrius’s cosh striking home again reached
them, just in time to see his first victim fall backwards, stunned or
dead, while another turned, uncomprehendingly, to receive the
heavy bludgeon’s full force across his nose. He staggered
backwards, clutching at his broken face and momentarily too
shocked to protest, giving Demetrius a moment to point urgently at a
pair of blanket-wrapped bodies even as he swung the weapon again,
expertly crushing the reeling man’s windpipe. Hefting the lead-filled
spear shaft’s unaccustomed weight, Marcus strode across the rocky
platform and stood over the sleeping men for an instant before
striking down with the heavy wooden club at the back of the closest
man’s neck. His victim’s sleeping body, tensed in a subconscious
reaction to the sounds of the fight, slumped back onto the rock like
an emptied water skin, as he died without ever knowing what had
killed him. His companion sat up, muttering a thick-mouthed
imprecation in his own language with his eyes barely open, only
realising what he was looking at in the last instant before the Roman
felled him with a vicious blow to his temple. Hurriedly arranging the
two bodies in sleep positions, Marcus moved back to the fire where
Demetrius and his companions were waiting, the bodyguard
speaking quietly as he peeled off the excrement-smeared garment
and pointed up at the peak above them.
‘They can’t see us down here, the rock’s overhang shields us from
view. But we have no way to know what their morning routine is. If
they usually come down for their food then we only have to wait, but
if they expect it to be brought to them they will eventually get
suspicious.’
Marcus looked around, his eyes alighting on a cloth bag with a
long strap, made to hang from a man’s shoulder.
‘I would be prepared to gamble that the men up there are
expecting to have their breakfast delivered to them.’
Demetrius nodded, but before he could reply, a call from above
them broke the dawn’s quiet, and both men looked up at the tower of
rock looming over them.
‘That sounded like a hungry man demanding to be fed, now that
the sun’s up. Give me that bag and I’ll—’
‘No, you won’t.’ Marcus unbuckled his sword belt and placed the
weapons beside the fire. ‘Look after these for me.’ He scooped up
the bag and put the strap over one shoulder. ‘And be ready to follow
me up when I call.’
Taking a headscarf from one of the corpses, he wrapped it around
his head, then ripped another into two pieces and wrapped his hands
in the thick material.
‘Let’s hope they see a man protecting his hands from the rope,
rather than to hide the colour of his skin from their eyes.’
The rope ladder had been crudely fashioned from thin, rough cord,
and creaked ominously as it took his weight, rough wooden rungs
knotted into the ropes to make a serviceable means of climbing the
rock. Forcing himself to ignore the sounds of its protests, Marcus
climbed with deliberate care, slowing as he reached the point where
the ladder reached the overhang, held clear of the stone surface by
crudely fashioned wooden blocks that gave just enough separation
from the rock for him to grasp the cord. His fingers were already
aching with the effort of pulling his weight up the near vertical ascent,
and he began to wonder whether he would be able to use them to
grip a weapon when the time came. Approaching the top of the
climb, keeping his gaze fixed on the ladder both to avoid losing his
grip and to prevent the white skin of his face from being visible to the
men above him, he heard a voice call out from close by. Looking up,
he saw a dark-skinned hand reaching down to help him over the
edge of the roughly flat surface that had been painstakingly chiselled
into the peak’s summit by the successive generations of its users.
The man standing over him spoke again, amused, and despite his
complete lack of comprehension the Roman realised that he was
being gently chided, the tone of his would-be helper’s voice edged
with acerbic humour even as he reached out and took one of what
he assumed to be a comrade’s hands, hauling the Roman off the
ladder and onto the relative safety of the lookouts’ perch. Pausing for
a moment to get his bearings, Marcus kept his gaze down, touching
the bag and feeling the club’s reassuring weight.
The lookout spoke again, his voice more impatient, demanding an
answer to whatever the question was that he was asking, and
Marcus knew that he had to act before suspicion set in. He stepped
forward a pace and held out the bag, looking up to see the other
man automatically reach for it. The lookout’s face was devoid of any
suspicion, brown eyes in a bearded, black-skinned face topped by
slightly greying hair, cropped tightly in what looked like a military
style. Taking another step Marcus lunged forward, putting both
hands on the other man’s chest and grasping his tunic, their faces
abruptly close enough that he felt the startled man’s breath on his
face, and saw his eyes widen as he realised that he was looking at a
stranger. Pulling the other man towards him, he used the soldier’s
immediate reflexive reaction of pulling away to assist his next move,
summoning all of his strength to throw the Kushite bodily over the
peak’s side. Ignoring the falling man’s shriek of terror, he pulled the
cut-down spear shaft from the bag as the other watcher turned to
face him with a look of amazement. When the Kushite spoke, after a
moment’s incredulity, his voice was thick with sudden rage at his
comrade’s brutal murder.
‘I will kill you for that.’
A big man, he moved with deliberate care as he drew a long knife
from the scabbard at his waist, ignoring the first, distant horn signal
from the far side of the river, as the watchers’ companions reacted to
the fallen man’s last, despairing scream in the dawn’s silence.
Marcus held the cosh out before him two-handed, knowing
instinctively that his adversary was a seasoned knife fighter from the
way he was slowly advancing across the rough surface. Feeling his
way with his leading foot before bringing the other forward in its
wake, the knife’s point was weaving sinuous patterns to protect his
advance, the blade held ready for a swift, deadly attack.
‘I won’t use this to kill you, just to cut you down.’ The black-faced
soldier’s Greek was heavily accented but understandable, classroom
learned, the Roman surmised absent-mindedly, as he focused on the
weaving knife’s blade, and his eyes were hard with the certainty of
his intended revenge. ‘I will throw you to your death, and you may
accompany my brother in his journey across the river.’
Marcus risked a swift glance down and realised that he was barely
a foot from the edge of the lookout point, and the Kushite laughed
grimly as he crabbed forward another pace, eager to pen his
opponent against the vertical drop.
‘Yes, you see your doom behind you. I will—’
The Roman struck, feinting for the blade with his club and then, as
the big man drew it away from the heavy weapon’s arc, squatted low
and released the cosh’s handle, whipping it back at the fullest
extension of its braided leather cord to impact hard against his
enemy’s kneecap. Grunting with the agony the Kushite staggered
backwards, cursing in his own language before spitting a torrent of
unintelligible abuse at Marcus and hobbling forward with the clear
intention of overwhelming his opponent with his sheer size, to
prevent any repeat of the blow. Swaying inside the path of the
lunging blade, Marcus grasped the other man’s extended arm and
turned swiftly to put his back against his attacker’s chest, reaching
back over his shoulder to grasp a handful of tunic before pivoting at
the waist to throw the big man over his shoulder. Helpless to resist
the unexpected move, the soldier landed hard, barely a pace from
the peak’s edge, scrabbling for grip as he flipped onto his front and
started to rise with a murderous roar that faltered as he realised that
Marcus had swung the lead-filled spear shaft at him, then screaming
in agony as the sweeping blow broke bones in the hand he had
unconsciously raised to protect his face. Struggling to his feet one-
handed, he tottered on the rough surface for a moment and then fell
backwards, spitting out a curse as he disappeared over the edge
and disappeared from view. Marcus sank to his knees and dropped
the club, shaking with the exertions of the climb and subsequent
fight, only to hear a voice shouting close by.
‘Help me here! Move!’ Turning back he saw that Demetrius had
scaled the peak and was struggling onto the stone surface. ‘Quickly!
We must return their signal! See?’
On the far side of the river a single flag was waving to and fro in
urgent sweeps, and Demetrius handed him a furled flag, unrolling
the white linen of another banner.
‘They show one flag, we must show two!’
Both men swept their banners from side to side, making the signal
as vigorous as possible, and after a moment the signal on the other
side of the river was lowered. After a moment’s uneasy silence
Demetrius shrugged, holding something out to Marcus.
‘We’ll know soon enough whether they’re deceived into thinking all
is well or not. While we wait, I suggest you eat this.’
Marcus took the warm bread and meat from him, chewing
vigorously as they looked across the river’s broad ribbon, grey in the
early light.
‘What would you do, if you were the commander of such a
detachment and the sound of a man’s scream had been heard from
across the river, no matter how faint?’
The Christian nodded knowingly.
‘I wouldn’t be satisfied with a signal, that’s a certainty. At the very
least I would be across the river to berate my men for their actions.’
‘Exactly.’ Marcus swallowed the last mouthful of food and nodded
decisively. ‘A diligent man, with some regard for his career and his
duty, would be across the river to find out what had happened. Help
me onto the ladder, then keep watch and warn us if they show signs
of investigating.’
Gratefully stepping off the ladder’s last rung at the peak’s foot, he
found Moise and Qadir wrapping the corpses in their own blankets,
ready for burial.
‘These men deserve some dignity in the afterlife. We must bury
them too deeply for the scavengers to reach them.’
‘And the man I stunned?’
‘Is awake, but unable to see. A result of the blow to the head that
you dealt him. His Greek is limited.’
Marcus crossed to the stricken man, squatting by him and
speaking in a conversational tone.
‘Your friends are dead. All of them. And you, it seems, are blind.’
The soldier nodded disconsolately, utterly motionless when
Marcus jabbed two fingers within inches of his eyes.
‘I see nothing. Only black.’
‘You will recover, in time, I expect. We can leave you food and
water to consume while you recuperate, but first I need some
information.’ He raised a hand to forestall a refusal to cooperate,
then realised that the soldier could not see the gesture. ‘You will, of
course, tell me to keep my questions to myself, and that you will not
answer them. As any good soldier should. Which, of course, I must
respect. And so it will be a matter of genuine sorrow to me, when I
am forced to kill you, or as good as. Unless, of course, you can tell
me a few simple facts about your comrades on the other side of the
river? The choice is yours.’
‘I cannot. My oath to my—’
‘Your oath to your king will not save you from being torn to pieces
by the vultures, when I take you down into the desert and leave you
there, alone and in your darkness. It is your choice.’
He sat in silence while the terrified man spoke, then climbed to his
feet and patted him on the shoulder before walking over to Moise.
‘There are another eight men over there. They cross every two
days to bring fresh supplies, and rotate the duty of watching,
allowing the men who are relieved of duty to return to the village and
enjoy its entertainment.’
The two men looked at each other, neither in any doubt as to the
fate of the villagers.
‘Which means that we will not be able to bring the legion through
before they discover that we have murdered their comrades.’
 Demetrius called down from above them, lying on his belly with his
head over the peak’s edge.
‘A boat!’
‘How many men?’
‘Wait!’
His head disappeared from view for a moment before reappearing.
‘Hard to say! Five! Six, perhaps!’
‘Stay visible! Wave, and reassure them!’
Demetrius waved, and Marcus turned back to his comrades.
‘We will have to allow them to get out of the boat before we take
them. Qadir, if they leave a man with the boat he must die before he
has the chance to get back into it. Soldier Moise …’
The Nubian snapped to attention. ‘Centurion.’
‘You must not die. You are the only man who can sit in the prow of
that boat when we take it back over the river, and by the colour of
your face persuade their comrades that all is well. Understood?’
‘Yes, Centurion.’
‘We will conceal ourselves, let them get out of the boat and into
the rocks, where they will be hidden from view from the other side of
the river, and then we take them. No hesitation, and no prisoners.
Understood?’
The sound of a shouted question from the river reached them as
they hurried down the roughly cut stone steps, followed a moment
later by a deliberately incomprehensible response from Demetrius.
Looking up, Marcus saw the veteran leaning forward as if straining to
hear, a hand cupped at his ear, shaking his head as the question
was barked at him again.
‘This isn’t going to fool them, not for one moment. Be ready to
fight!’
Leading his men into the slabs of fallen rock that littered the
ground between river and peak, Marcus cursed inwardly, knowing
that such a hurried disposition of his forces was likely to remove any
advantage they might have enjoyed had they had time to choose
their positions more carefully, nodding at Moise as the Nubian
slipped into the cover of a large boulder and hefted his sword, ready
to fight. The man who had been shouting questions at Demetrius
was talking to his men, clearly audible at a distance of no more than
twenty paces or so as the boat ran into the riverbank’s mud with a
squelch, his words both commanding and urgent.
‘They should have turned around and rowed back across the river
to alert their general by now, surely?’
The Roman nodded at Qadir’s whispered question.
‘Yes. But these are no ordinary soldiers. They are good, but that
makes them over-confident. Be ready.’
With a clatter of hobnails on stone the enemy soldiers were upon
them, moving in short, disciplined rushes from one rock to another,
and Marcus readied himself as the sounds of their advance drew
closer.
‘Go!’
The Syrian advanced around the left of the boulder with an arrow
nocked and ready to loose, Marcus stepping out from its cover on
the other side with his swords raised. In front of him, no more than
five paces distant, a group of four Kushite soldiers were advancing in
a compact group with their swords drawn, the man who was
evidently their leader at their head, gazing furiously up at the peak’s
summit. His gaze snapped down from the waving Demetrius to the
threat before him as the Roman stepped into view, and, barking a
terse command, he rushed forward to attack. Parrying his hurried
strike, Marcus went for the kill with his spatha only to have it parried
by the man to his right, another stepping up on the other side to
confront the Roman with three blades, the fourth man waiting behind
them. Giving ground to tempt them forward, Marcus nodded in
satisfaction as Moise stepped out of his hiding place and stabbed the
closest man to him with his sword’s point, then cursed inwardly as
the blade stuck between the stricken Kushite’s ribs for long enough
that the man behind him had time to dance forward and lunge,
putting the point of his own sword through the Nubian’s thigh as he
twisted away in attempted evasion, putting the soldier out of the
fight. Faced with three blades again, and knowing that he would be
unable to fight all of them at the same time, Marcus weighed the
alternatives for an instant before – seeing the enemy commander
looking behind him, ready to chase him down were he to run – he
took the only other option available. Springing forward into the heart
of the enemy, he lowered his head to butt the Kushite leader hard on
the bridge of his nose with his helmet’s iron surface, feeling bone
snap as the officer staggered backwards momentarily. Raising the
long spatha’s blade, he reversed his grip on its hilt to leave the point
downwards with the unconscious skill of the thousands of times
Cotta had made him practise the simple movement in his youth, then
attacked again even as the remaining two men lunged forward at
him.
Sidestepping a sword thrust, he barged the man to his left against
the rock hard enough to bounce his bronze helmet off the stone
surface. While the momentarily stunned Kushite’s fellow drew back
his sword in readiness to strike, the Roman stabbed down with the
spatha, feeling the resistance as his heavy iron blade’s point cut
down into his opponent’s booted foot, then took a handful of tunic
and manhandled him off the boulder’s face and into the other’s path.
As the crippled soldier shouted in agony his comrade stabbed in with
his own blade, intent on dealing out retribution, but only managed to
put the point into his comrade’s side. Stepping to the right the
Roman sank his gladius’s blade into the horrified Kushite’s throat,
opening the artery and leaving him staggering, dropping the sword
as he tried to stem the flow of blood with his hands.
Something hit Marcus hard, sending him flying backwards to land
hard with the weight of a man’s body on top of him, losing his grip of
both swords with the impact. Reaching for his dagger, he was almost
too late in realising that the Kushite officer had already drawn his
own close-quarters weapon and had it raised for the kill. He whipped
up his hands just in time to intercept the blow, straining to hold the
other’s man’s wrist with the weapon’s point barely an inch from his
throat. Growling angrily, his broken nose dripping blood onto Marcus,
the Kushite put both hands onto the dagger’s hilt and flexed his
muscles, forcing the dagger’s point down into the soft flesh of the
Roman’s neck, dimpling the skin as his weight and strength slowly
but certainly overcame Marcus’s ability to prevent the blade’s
remorseless descent.
 With a sudden thud that Marcus felt through the other man’s body,
something shook the Kushite, and at the moment when it seemed
inevitable that the blade would push down through the Roman’s last
vestige of resistance, the strength suddenly went out of his assailant,
and he slumped lifelessly down onto his would-be victim. Rolling out
from beneath the enemy officer, the Kushite abruptly having been
transformed from hard-eyed avenger to lolling corpse, the Roman
retrieved his swords before turning back to examine the dead man,
raising an eyebrow at Qadir as he made his way back through the
rocks.
‘This was your doing?’
The Hamian shook his head in bafflement.
‘The man guarding the boat had a shield. I was so long dealing
with him that I feared you would be dead by now.’
‘Then how—’
‘It was me!’
Both men looked up at Demetrius, who was leaning over the
peak’s edge, so far above them that he was barely visible.
‘But …’ Marcus shook his head, looking around until he found a
heavy stone close to the dead man’s body, picking it up and raising it
for Demetrius to see. ‘You threw this?’
‘Yes! Well, I dropped it more than threw it! It hit him on the back of
his head!’
The two men bent closer, finding the Kushite’s helmet flattened at
its rear. Marcus straightened up, shaking his head in wonder.
‘You threw this? Knowing that it would kill me, if it hit me?’
‘There was never any danger, Centurion! Our Lord guided my
hand, as I knew he would!’ In the moment’s pause that followed,
Marcus could have sworn that he heard the sound of a poorly
muffled laugh. ‘And besides, he was on top of you. Had I not thrown
the rock, he would have killed you before your brother officer could
come to your rescue! Am I right?’
The Roman nodded tiredly.
‘Come down! We have one more task to perform.’
The two men stripped the officer and two of his men of their
equipment while they waited for Demetrius to make his way down
from the vantage point, Marcus donning the officer’s ornate armour
and looking at Moise with dismay. The soldier had staunched the
flow of blood from his thigh with his scarf, but was clearly quite
incapable of standing without support, much less participating in a
raid across the river.
‘Without him I have no idea how we will get close enough to
whoever remains on the other side of the river by surprise. Three
men crossing the river without a black face among them will surely
alarm them enough for them to run, and our chance of surprise to be
lost.’
‘Perhaps.’ They turned to find the Christian standing behind them.
‘And perhaps not. There is a trick that I pulled on a party of my fellow
believers, in the days before I saw the light. It is a way to deceive
them for long enough that your fellow officer will be close enough to
let his arrows fly. But it can only work if you are able to control a
man’s natural instincts against doing such a thing.’
‘What do you mean?’
Demetrius sucked in a deep breath.
‘You must understand, Centurion, that I was a different man in
those far-off days. Without scruple. Totally lacking in any regard for
my fellow man.’ He sighed. ‘There is an act that I carried out, when I
was hunting rebels at my legatus’s command. There was a group of
them hiding in a very secure place, high on a mountainside with a
path barely wide enough for one man, rocky and uncertain, reducing
that man’s progress to little better than a walking pace. To attack it,
in the face of determined resistance, would have condemned a
dozen or more of my men to certain death, for there were archers
among their number – and a shield, as you will know, is no sure
means of defence against an iron-pointed arrow at less than a dozen
paces. Other members of this troublesome Hebrew sect, as I saw
them at that time, had taken their own lives rather than surrender,
which only deepened my reluctance to throw lives away only to
capture a cave full of corpses. And then, just as I was considering
marching my detachment away, a latecomer fell into my hands. And,
with a clarity that still shocks me today, I saw what it was I had to do.’
‘Which was what?’
 What Demetrius told the two centurions, factually and without
attempting to justify his actions, made them stare at him in fresh
amazement. The Christian shrugged apologetically.
‘I told you, Centurion, that I was a different man before the one
true God brought me into his light. And he has changed me, in so
many ways, since that day. But at heart I remain the same person,
with the same abilities, even if I am now the vessel of his plans
rather than those of the empire which, by fortunate coincidence, now
happen to be one and the same. Only say the word, and I will repeat
the trick I have explained to you. After all, I already have to atone for
the deaths of yet more men by my own hand; this will give me little
enough extra penance.’

‘They’re coming back!’

The under-officer grunted, chewing on a piece of spiced lamb that
he had cut from the half-eaten leg in the middle of what was serving
as a mess table, and speaking through the mouthful of food as a
question occurred to him.
‘Ask him how many there are in the boat.’
The soldier sitting by the farmhouse’s window shouted the
question down at the riverbank twenty feet below, waiting a moment
for the man at the water’s edge, the sharpest eyed of them, to reply.
‘He says five, Lord!’
‘Which is the right answer. Ask him if there’s anything out of the
ordinary to be seen.’
After another moment’s pause the answer was negative. The
officer grunted, putting another piece of meat into his mouth and
chewing vigorously as he spoke.
‘I told him there was nothing to worry about. They gave the right
counter-signal, and he’s only been over there long enough to have a
good shout and kick some arses, so that’s that, from the look of it.
You, woman!’
He held out his cup to be refilled with water, shaking his head at
the state of the dead farmer’s wife. Bruised about her face, her
expression combined dejection and fear as she shuffled forward with
a leather jug, her movements slow and pained.
 ‘You lot have been going at this one too hard. You’re going to kill
her if you don’t take it a bit easier. Which will mean that I’ll have to
wash my own clothes, and you’ll have to make do with the donkey
that works the irrigation wheel. What’s wrong with her daughter?’
‘She died two days ago, Lord.’
The under-officer shook his head again.
‘You idiots! We’re going to be here another month, at least, making
sure the Romans don’t come up the river to have a go at capturing
the capital, and I don’t plan to be that long without someone to cook
and wash. Take a party upstream later on, and see what you can
find, right?’
The soldier nodded equably, happy enough at the prospect, and
after a moment the officer belched and stood up, brushing crumbs
from his tunic.
‘Right, let’s have a look.’ He strode to the window, looking out at
the river to find the boat more than two thirds of the way back
across, a pair of soldiers rowing hard, two more in the boat’s stern,
while his superior, as expected, sat in the small vessel’s prow with
his cloak wrapped around his shoulders. ‘He must be getting old, if
he thinks this is cold. Gods, but he’s an ugly bastard.’
Both men watched as the boat came towards them, the under-
officer smiling at the oarsmen’s strenuous efforts.
‘Look at them, rowing like athletes. He must be hungry, to have
them laying into it like that. I did suggest he wait until after breaking
his fast to go over and get those idiots by the balls, but no, you know
him, always …’
He looked harder at the oncoming vessel, his brow furrowing as
he tried to work out what he was looking at, the boat advancing to
within a dozen paces of the riverbank with no sign of slowing down.
‘His face … he looks … wrong …’
As he watched, caught in a moment of indecision as to what it was
that was troubling him, one of the rowers let go of his oar and turned
in the boat, raising a bow and loosing the arrow nocked to its string
in one swift, fluid movement. The soldier standing watch on the
riverbank had leapt to his feet an instant before, he too realising that
all was not as it seemed, but as he turned to run his body jerked,
then fell full length with the arrow’s fletching protruding from his
back. The man sitting in the prow no longer had a black face, but
rather a mask of blood over pale skin that to the under-officer’s eye
gave him the look of a vengeful demon as he leapt onto the bank, a
pair of swords gleaming dully in the dawn light. The men in the boat
behind him were close behind him, all but for the one left slumped
over the side, a corpse no longer held up by the man next to him.
‘Shit! Quickly, we have to—’
He started as an arrow hissed through the window and dropped
the soldier standing next to him to the floor, kicking and grunting in
agony with the shaft buried deep in his chest. Starting away from the
stricken man, he turned to run and found himself face to face with
the farmer’s widow, staring into her hard, embittered eyes for an
instant before the pain hit him. Looking down, he saw the hilt of his
own dagger, taken from the belt draped over the back of his chair,
the entirety of its six-inch blade buried in his stomach.
‘You … bitch …’ Reaching down, he pulled the weapon free,
roaring with the pain as blood spattered across his attacker’s shift,
then raised the weapon over his head, grabbing at a handful of her
meagre clothing and cursing as she flinched away from him.
Breathing hard with the effort and the pain, he backed her into the
room’s corner, showing her the knife’s blade and spitting his fury in
her terrified face.
‘I’ll have your guts …’
And abruptly found himself on the floor in a fast-spreading puddle
of his own blood, staring up at the bloody-faced murderer who had
worn another man’s face until it was too late for the subterfuge’s
discovery to matter. Fighting to raise a hand that seemed heavier
than he could ever have imagined, he forced the trembling fingers
into the warding gesture.
‘Sorcerer!’
The swordsman sheathed the shorter of his two blades, shaking
the blood from the other.
‘Hardly. All it really took was remaining steady enough to let a man
I thought was harmless until a day ago skin a corpse, and then mask
me with that skin.’
 The Kushite opened his mouth to utter a curse, but the breath
needed never came, and Marcus turned away from his blankly
staring eyes to find the woman bowing to him. Putting a finger under
her chin, he gently lifted her face in order to look into her eyes.
‘This is over. You are free.’
‘She does not understand you, Centurion. Allow me.’
Demetrius held his hands up, palms first to show that they were
empty, stopping a respectful pace from the woman and holding up a
thin blanket.
‘I will care for her. Perhaps you should join your friend in looking
for signs of any more of them, although I believe we have killed them
all.’
Marcus nodded, turning for the door, then stopped as a thought
struck him.
‘The Jews that you sought to deceive, by taking a man’s face from
his body and wearing it over your own. Did it work?’
Demetrius nodded sadly.
‘Yes, Centurion, it did. I was steeped in evil in those days, before I
was washed clean of a lifetime’s guilt by a man who could see past
my earthly imperfections to the soul waiting to be delivered from that
evil.’ He met Marcus’s eyes. ‘You want to know how many of those
poor benighted men, women and children I killed, hiding behind the
face of a dead man to fool them that I was their friend until it was too
late, and I was upon them? I cannot tell you. I was swollen by the
glee of my deception to a thing of incarnate evil rather than a man,
and the soldiers following up behind me flinched away when I
emerged from the cave, painted crimson with the blood of a dozen
victims. To this day I lie awake some nights, and relive the shameful
memories of slaughtering innocents, lost in my lust for blood.’
He fell silent, still staring at Marcus.
‘And yet you were willing to repeat the trick today?’
The Christian nodded.
‘I knew that the day would come when I would be forced to
compromise the teachings of my faith, in order to do what is
necessary to bring new believers to Our Lord. That day was today.’
‘And if you have to do so again?’
 ‘Then I will pray to my God for guidance, as I did this morning in
the dawn, when you thought I was napping, or pretending to. And if
my God tells me that I must kill, then in his name I will do so.’
Later, with the bodies of the men they had killed buried in the
farm’s black mud, the Romans walked back towards the boat,
leaving the sole survivor of the dead soldiers’ depredations weeping
over her dead husband’s resting place. Demetrius bent, retrieving
the mask he had cut from the dead Kushite officer’s face less than
an hour before, brushing away the flies before folding it into a
triangle of bloodied flesh.
Qadir grimaced at the grisly trophy.
‘Surely you can’t want that?’
Shaking his head, the Christian gestured to the far side of the
river.
‘I must bury him intact. To send him onward to face judgement
without a face would be the cruellest of insults.’
The Hamian raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘His men murdered and raped the occupants of this farm, and who
knows how many others? Surely that’s cruel enough?’
‘Possibly so, but it is not my place to judge. God himself will
decide what punishment is to be meted out to the soul of such a
man. My role was simply to send him to judgement.’
They climbed into the boat and pushed away from the riverbank,
Demetrius rowing steadily for the distant western shore.
‘One of the simplest but strongest teachings of the Christos was
that it is those men who have lived blameless lives who will be the
first to be admitted to paradise in the afterlife.’
The Hamian laughed sardonically.
‘What does that mean for the rest of us? Our lives could hardly be
described as having been blameless, no matter whether we believed
that right was on our side or not.’
Demetrius kept rowing, and for a long moment it appeared that he
would not answer the question, but at length he spoke again.
‘God – the one true God, who sits apart from the plethora of idols
and fakes that most men in the empire worship – does not simply
judge a man on what he has done in his life, but rather on what was
in his soul at the time he committed the acts. A soldier can fight, and
kill, and God will not punish him for it if his desire was to protect his
homeland from invaders, or to spread his word to the unenlightened.
And surely, I would argue, this task that we are performing for your
master in Rome meets both of those requirements. You are seeking
to free your fellow citizens, are you not?’
‘And you are here to convert the barbarians who have subjugated
them?’
The Christian smiled enigmatically.
‘I will provide them with the opportunity to see the light that shines
from heaven.’
‘And if they refuse to see that light? And consider your attempt at
conversion to be grounds for your death?’
The answer was instant, having clearly been considered at length.
‘As I told you, Centurion, I have lived, and continue to live, a
charmed life. If God is watching over me so carefully, then it can only
be with the intention of using me as an earthly vessel for his
message, even unto my own death. And who am I, a reformed and
forgiven sinner with the blackest of deeds in my past, miraculously
forgiven and given another chance to make something from this life,
to refuse?’
 9

‘It looks unoccupied to me.’

Demetrius nodded in agreement, the gesture just visible in the
dusk’s gloom. The scouts had ridden along the river to the south
without any further sign of enemy scouts, replenishing their supplies
at the border town of Souan by posing as well-escorted merchants
looking to purchase emeralds. Bribing the gate guards to ignore their
unconventional exit, they had slipped quietly away in the dead of
night to resume their progress into Kushite territory without being
spotted by curious eyes, friendly or not.
‘It does seem to be empty, doesn’t it? But that would surely be too
good to be true, would it not?’
‘Perhaps. And although I would happily accept that oversight on
our enemy’s side, the most important thing is that the fortress
appears still to be intact. It was entirely possible that the king of Kush
might have chosen to tear it down and remove a potential thorn in
his side.’
The three men stared in silence across the river for a moment,
taking in the fortress’s looming silhouette brooding over the Nilus’s
course. Perched high over the river, crowning a rock outcrop that
reared up from the river’s edge to a height of two hundred feet above
the water, it looked every bit as formidable a fortress as Scaurus’s
descriptions had led them to expect.
‘Wait until our colleague Avidus lays eyes on that. He might just
expire with the joy of such a natural strongpoint.’
Marcus nodded at Qadir’s amused observation. Flanked on both
sides of its four-hundred-pace frontage by steep-sided ravines, its
western face an almost sheer drop to the riverbank, it was evident
that the fortress could only be approached from the side that faced
the desert to the east.
‘Now I see how Augustus’s general Petronius was able to hold it
against the full strength of Kush for so long. They could only
approach it from one side, and that so lacking in cover that a legion’s
bolt throwers would tear the heart out of an attack without even
having to be aimed. But we don’t have it yet.’
‘And your orders, Centurion?’
He turned to find Demetrius grinning at him.
‘Are you making fun of me, Christian?’
The older man shook his head, still smiling.
‘Far from it. It is simply that we find ourselves with something of a
choice to make, do we not? On the one hand, the fortress does
indeed appear to be unoccupied. And it might be that a single small
boat crossing the river in the darkness would go completely
unnoticed, even were there men set to caretake it. On the other, the
lack of visible illumination might be meaningless. A structure that
large could harbour an infantry cohort without there being any sign of
their occupation from this distance, if they were cautious enough not
to display any sign of their presence on the walls.’
‘Indeed.’ Marcus stared at the fortress’s looming bulk. ‘We either
cross now, a small party more likely to go unnoticed, or we wait for
the legion’s full strength to arrive.’
Qadir stared up at the fortress’s brooding bulk for a moment.
‘Waiting for the legion’s arrival would at least put spears at our
backs. They can only be a few days behind us, given they will cover
the distance from Souan by river. Perhaps an approach in force is
the most prudent answer to this question?’
The Roman shook his head.
‘No. We have our orders, and they are well founded. The tribune
was right – once he passes the first cataract, and the city of Souan
on the far bank, the clandestine part of this advance is over.’
Scaurus had pointed at the frontier city on the map they had used
to plan their strategy, the night before their departure from Koptos.
‘We start at a disadvantage, gentlemen, which is why I intend to
use subterfuge to tempt our enemy as far to the north as I can. It will
take us ten days to reach the city of Souan, traditionally the border
between Rome and Kush, because we are forced to follow the river’s
winding course to water our men and beasts. And when we reach
Souan, we will still be several days march from Premnis, although
we may be able to requisition enough shipping to reduce that travel
time to a day or two. If all goes well, we will arrive at the fortress
within a week of the advance party. But …’
He reached out and pointed a finger at the frontier city.
‘Souan is riddled with the Kush. It is the point where Rome and its
neighbour to the south have faced each other for the last two
hundred years, ever since Augustus decided to make peace with
Queen Amanirenas rather than risk another war when he had no
legions available to fight it. Diplomats, priests at the temple, traders,
informers … there will be hundreds of the enemy’s civilians in
Souan, and it will only take one of them to ride east with the news
that a Roman legion has passed on the western bank to alert the
king to our presence. How far is it from Berenike to Souan,
gentlemen?’
The speculatores had conferred for a moment before delivering
their opinion through Demetrius.
‘The average of my brothers’ estimations is two hundred miles. It
looks a good deal less on the map, of course, but the road, such as it
is, weaves its way through the mountains that run between them,
and for every mile that you see there on the wall, there is more than
another to be covered on the ground.’
Scaurus’s response had been to emphatically tap the spot that he
had determined was to be their objective with his index finger.
‘So, perhaps three days’ ride for a man willing to drive his horse
into the ground. Allow an additional day for them to break camp and
move west. After that they will have to cross the desert to Souan and
march south along the river, because I don’t intend to leave any
ships for them to use. Which means that from the moment word of
our advance into their territory reaches their king, we have perhaps
ten days before his arrival in front of the fortress gates. Or less, if
word has reached him by some other means. Which means that the
advance party must take Premnis, by whatever means, because we
have no time for a lengthy siege. If we fail to take the fortress, then
our only option will be to retreat back to Koptos and accept the loss
of Berenike. So take Premnis for me, gentlemen, at any cost.’
Marcus looked up and down the river’s black ribbon.
‘We must cross the Nilus tonight, while our presence here is still
undetected. And in doing so we might just succeed where ten times
our strength would fail in the daylight.’
‘I must warn you that the crocodiles will be active, Centurion.’
The three men turned to Moise, whose voice bore the
unmistakable signs of fear. He had expounded at some length on the
subject of the river’s predators during their ride south, returning to
the subject any time that there was any hint of an amphibian
presence beneath the Nilus’s water, and when Marcus had decided
to purchase a boat large enough to hold half a dozen men from an
amenable farmer, his warnings had become even more dire than
before.
‘Surely if we stay in the boat we will be safe?’
‘Not necessarily, Centurion. It is quite usual to hear stories of the
largest of them overturning small boats and taking the people that
were tipped out into the river. They carry their prey down under the
water and drown it.’
‘It will be a swift death then?’
‘Yes, but at night, in the darkness …’
The Roman put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
‘I understand. You can stay here, if you wish.’
Marcus gestured to the darkened undergrowth, but the soldier’s
response was swift and emphatic.
‘To do so alone would be even worse! Those monsters hunt on the
land as well! I will come with you, but by all the gods I ask you not to
risk overturning the boat or we will never be seen again!’
They boarded the boat and set out across the now dark river,
pointing the prow upstream to compensate for the Nilus’s powerful
current; Demetrius instructed his men to row steadily rather than risk
attracting the attention of any lookouts by working their oars too
vigorously. The fortress towered higher above them as they
progressed, its unnaturally straight-lined bulk standing out against
the starlit sky behind it.
‘I see no watchers. No patrolling sentries. Surely a guard force
would be more obvious?’
Marcus nodded at Qadir’s whispered question.
‘One might think so. But they may believe themselves immune
from enemy action, this far south.’
Nosing into the river’s eastern bank, the boat had no sooner
touched its mud than the Christian, who had made the crossing
perched in its bows, was ashore and holding onto the small vessel
while his companions climbed over the side, carrying it into the cover
of the rocks beneath the fortress’s almost sheer northern face.
Crouching in the darkness and looking up, Marcus held his breath for
a moment and listened carefully, but the only sound was the lapping
of the river’s water against its banks and the occasional animal
sound from the far side, as nature’s constant war between predator
and prey played out in the darkness.
‘Nothing. Not a single sound out of place.’
Marcus listened for another moment before nodding his
agreement with Qadir’s opinion.
‘Moise, you will struggle with such a climb as you are still healing.
Stay to guard the boat at a safe distance from the river. The rest of
you, with me.’
Leading the party up the steep ravine on the fortress’s northern
side, stepping carefully to avoid the larger rocks that had been
strewn down its length during its construction, he stopped, breathing
hard, at the point where a further slope branched upwards towards
the walls above them. Pausing for a moment to get his breath back
he continued the climb, cursing silently as rock scree slid away from
beneath their boots to skitter down the steep slope. Gaining the level
ground at the massive structure’s north-eastern corner, the Roman
peeped around the wall’s corner at its northern frontage as the
remainder of the party struggled up the treacherous slope, waiting
until Qadir and Demetrius were at his shoulder before speaking,
pointing at the curving run of the fortress’s eastern wall.
 ‘There’s what looks like a gateway halfway down the wall. And if
there’s anyone here they’d have to be the soundest of sleepers not
to have heard that racket. Either they’re waiting in ambush or this
place really is deserted. And there’s only one way to find out.’
Moving quietly down the rampart’s face, listening intently for any
indication of a presence within the brooding fortification, they found
that the black space in the wall’s pale, starlit run of stone was in fact
a gaping hole torn in the wall’s frontage. Demetrius studied the
opening, several paces wide and ragged-edged where individual
stones had been torn out.
‘The gate was probably no wider than enough space for a pair of
armoured men to pass. And they have tried to make it impossible to
defend by removing the doors. But are they still here? Why defend
something you believe you have made useless for its purpose?’
Marcus drew his swords with a hiss of polished steel.
‘Shall we go and reveal the truth of that question?’
Stepping through the opening he stood still for a moment, allowing
his eyes to adjust to the gloom within the walls before moving deeper
into the fortress’s streets. Pacing slowly forward into the darkness he
cocked his head to listen intently for any sound of occupation. A tall
building rose on the right of the street down which they were
advancing, and he led them through its open door into a high,
vaulted space. Demetrius walked to the middle of the flat stone floor,
turning a slow circle and inhaling deeply, pointing to a bronze statue
gleaming dully in the shadows at its far end, fecund female curves
and a proud featured face.
‘It is a temple to their goddess. Do you smell the faint traces of
incense? What a church to Our Lord this would make!’
A sound at the door caught their attention, the scraping scuff of
metal on stone, and all three men turned to point their weapons at a
man standing stock-still in the temple’s doorway, frozen by the threat
of Qadir’s nocked arrow as the Hamian paced towards him with his
bow raised.
‘Move and I will shoot you. Do you speak Greek?’
‘Yes, Lord.’
 The newcomer blew out a shaky breath, his eyes wide with fear as
Marcus stepped forward and used the flat of his spatha to push him
into the tall, vaulted room.
‘Who are you?’
‘No one, Lord, a simple farmer.’
Demetrius shook his head in disbelief.
‘A simple farmer who speaks the language of civilisation? How
likely is that?’
‘My mother taught me! A trader’s daughter, she met a man of Kush
and settled, although I believe she came to regret the choice when
she realised what being the wife of a farmer meant. She hoped I
would use the language to escape this life.’
‘But you did not.’
‘No. And when my father died, the neighbouring farmers drove me
off my land. They said that I did not belong, and divided my farm
between them. I worked as a labourer, scraping enough money to
stay alive, and ended up in the work party that made this fortress
unusable to the Romans.’
‘And you stayed here when the army moved on?’
‘It was not hard. Nobody would have expected any of us to want to
stay here, and I had no friends to miss my presence. I had already
found a hiding place, and concealed some of the grain which we
were detailed to sweep out of the granaries, so it was easy enough
to slip away and hide. Not that anyone came to look for me.’
Marcus stared at him in silence for a moment, then nodded as he
made his decision.
‘Show us where you have been living. And if you run, you die.
What is your name?’
The Kushite relaxed slightly.
‘Piye, Lord.’
‘You may call me Centurion. Indeed you may call us all by that
title. And don’t imagine that knowing your name will prevent my
colleague here from putting an arrow in your back if you try to run
from us.’
Piye led them deeper into the silent fortress, apparently unable to
stop talking now that the threat of death had been lifted, pointing at a
tiny building sandwiched between a pair of what were evidently
granaries, their walls buttressed against the weight of the grain that
would have pressed against them when they were full.
‘This was my hiding place when the army left, and I have lived in it
since then.’
Qadir put his head into the small space, barely large enough for a
man to lie in.
‘His possessions are in there, such as they are. It seems that he is
telling the truth.’ He turned to the Kushite. ‘What did the army have
you do to render this fortress unusable?’
‘You have seen the gates? We were ordered to tear away both
doors and hinges, and then to pull out the stones in which the hinges
were set. Then they had us break the cisterns that held enough
water to provide for a garrison, and collapse the walls of the
granaries into themselves. I recall the officer in charge of our work
discussing it with his fellows. He was a proud man, dressed like a
god in shining armour made of metal scales, like yours but larger, a
man as black as the night from the far south. The officers spoke in
Greek, which they believed none of us peasants could understand.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘They spoke of the coming war which their ruler had ordered them
to prepare for. And they laughed at the thought of an invader seeking
to use this place for protection, without gates, without water and
without food.’
Marcus nodded.
‘And they were right, all things considered. But their king has failed
to consider the first rule of warfare.’
Piye looked him expectantly, but the Roman had already turned
away and was examining the damage that had been wrought on the
nearest of the granaries. Qadir spoke softly, his voice at once gentle
but with an unmistakable undertone of threat.
‘You find yourself part of another army now, Piye of Kush. You will
show us where the damage has been wrought upon this fortress and
help us to repair it, and make this place fit to defend once more.’ He
laughed at the disbelieving look on the labourer’s face. ‘You’ll see.
The army of Meroë may be a thing of terror in the field, when it
outnumbers its enemy many times over, but it will be a different
matter when its men are forced to attack in the face of a blizzard of
iron.’
‘Lor— Centurion?’
‘You will understand, in good time. For now I am content to
complete my fellow officer’s statement. The first rule of warfare is
that you must always endeavour to predict the unexpected, and to
prepare for it.’
‘But if it is unexpected …?’
The Hamian smiled.
‘That will be the result of a failure to open one’s eyes to the
possibilities afforded by an enemy’s strengths, and necessitated by
his weaknesses. As the king of Kush may well be about to discover.’

‘So Centurion, you’ve had a good look around the fortress, what do
you think?’
Avidus pursed his lips in the manner to which his comrades had
grown accustomed, looking up at the cloudless sky as he considered
Scaurus’s question. The tribune was standing on the broad, stony
plain outside the fortress with his officers, considering the prize
which his advance up the river had secured. Marcus smiled
knowingly at Cotta as Abasi’s hands reflexively tightened on his vine
stick, the senior centurion clearly eager to be among his men as the
shouts of the legion’s officers reached them from the chain of
soldiers laboriously passing the legion’s disassembled bolt throwers
up the ravine from the boats unloading at the river’s eastern bank.
The vessels had been commandeered in the river port of Souan by
the simple expedient of a tent party being billeted on each one
before their masters had the chance to sail, and several of them had
been manned and sent to lurk on either bank in order to ensure that
captains bringing their vessels downriver couldn’t turn about and
make a run back to the south, to avoid their being put into imperial
service as well. Leaving the bulk of his legion in the riverside town,
with orders to requisition every scrap of spare food, Scaurus had
ordered his makeshift fleet to sail upriver with the disassembled
artillery as their first cargo, accompanied by the legion’s craftsmen
and enough men to unload the powerful weapons and begin their
assembly.
‘Could you look any more like a Roman builder being asked to put
right another man’s failed work?’
The African smiled at Cotta’s jaundiced observation, lifting a hand
to point at the fortress.
‘There is much to do here, Centurion. Where a city builder would
be asking what the householder’s budget was, I have a different
question for my customer.’
‘Which is?’
The engineer turned to address his tribune.
‘I have walked the length and breadth of this fortress, Tribune.
While she has been sadly abused by the barbarians, I am sure,
given enough time, that my men and I can restore her to her former
majesty …’ he paused and tipped his head respectfully at Abasi,
‘with the assistance of the legion’s skilled tradesmen, of course.’
‘Did you just call that pile of stones her?’
Avidus’s lips twisted in disdain.
‘You have no finer feelings for the beauty of a well-constructed
building, do you, Cotta? The fortress has a spirit, a … presence, and
like the sailor who terms his ship as “she”, my men and I have a
similar view. Scoff all you like.’ He turned back to Scaurus, ignoring
the veteran’s mockingly blown kiss. ‘How long do we have to restore
her to her former glory?’
Scaurus shrugged.
‘By rights we should have ten days, but our enemy has wrong-
footed a perfectly competent commander once in this war already, so
I see no reason to underestimate him. You have seven days at best,
I think. What can you do with her in that time?’
‘Seven days? It is not long enough, really.’ Avidus beckoned his
second-in-command over, a squat and fearsomely muscled chosen
man whose prodigious strength had led to his being known by the
not-entirely-humorous nickname ‘Hercules’, his hands scarred from a
lifetime of manual work with the upper two joints of the index finger
on his right hand missing from some accident in his past. The two
men conferred for a moment, then the African nodded decisively.
‘First Spear Abasi, I am presuming that your men will not require our
assistance to assemble their bolt throwers?’
‘They will not. I drill them in the assembly and use of their
weapons on a regular basis, and there are strict rules which ensure
that all components are always present. The tent parties that work
them carry all the ironwork that holds their machines together, and
spares besides, and they know that if I inspect them and discover as
much as a single bolt missing, I will have them all bent over a post
for a public beating, and their century on half-rations for a week. It
seems to be an effective motivation, after a vigorous example having
been made in the early days of my tenure.’
The engineer nodded.
‘Then I will spare no thought for that side of the fortress’s defence.
Which leaves the obvious requirements for any such stronghold: a
supply of water to ensure day-to-day survival, enough food to outlast
the enemy, and walls that are strong enough to keep them from
overrunning the occupants.’ He looked around the gathered officers,
inviting comment, before continuing. ‘So, we are agreed. Let us
consider them one at a time.’
He pointed at the nearest of the gaping wounds in the wall’s run,
where the gate that had filled the hole, and the stone which had
formed the frame around it, had both been ripped away.
‘The walls of the fortress are five paces deep, with well-cut and
fitted block facings and rubble infill. They will resist anything that this
enemy can throw at them, and I doubt that there is much chance of
them having the time or patience to tunnel through ground this solid,
and from outside of bolt-thrower range, to undermine them. Which
means that the gates will undoubtedly be the focus of any besieger’s
attentions. There are … were … three gates, which have all been
torn out. Without them we are defenceless against an army large
enough to accept the casualties they will take from attacking into the
teeth of our artillery. And the stones that were cut to fit around them
have been carried away from here, which means that we will need to
quarry and cut more, easily a longer task than we have time for. The
best I can do is fill the gaps in the walls with rubble.’
 Scaurus gestured to Marcus, who ushered Piye forward, the
peasant labourer visibly wilting at being the focus of a dozen officers’
attention, tapping him encouragingly on the shoulder.
‘Speak.’
The Aegyptian quavered.
‘I know—’
Marcus tapped him again, a little harder.
‘No. Louder. Your mother gifted you with the Greek language, now
speak out with the courage your father must have had to win such an
exotic woman to be his wife.’
‘I know where the stones are, Lords! All the Kushites did was
throw them into the northern ravine so, if you know where to look for
them, they are easily retrievable.’
Avidius smiled wryly.
‘The word “easy” might be a little generous, but I understand. Did
they throw the gates themselves down there as well?’
Piye shook his head.
‘They were made of wood, so the officer in charge had them
burned.’
The African grimaced, gesturing to the empty, barren landscape.
‘Which will make them almost impossible to replace, given the lack
of seasoned timber around here.’
‘With respect …?’ The Romans turned back to Piye. ‘The ships
that pass this point are loaded with all sorts of trade goods that
merchants in Souan know will bring healthy profits when shipped
down the river to the north, such as gold, the tusks of the elephant,
and exotic dark woods. And among these is a hardwood, ebeninos,
grown in the lands far to the south, prized for its durability, that I
believe would be especially suitable for the construction of
replacement gates for the fortress.’
Scaurus smiled slowly.
‘It seems that you have already proved yourself valuable.’ He
turned to Abasi. ‘First Spear, would you be so good as to order an
immediate blockade of the river? Use the larger of the boats we
came upriver in to block the Nilus to all traffic, and only let them
through once they’ve been searched and had anything of value
requisitioned and unloaded. Give the masters promissory notes for
anything of any value. Here …’ He gestured to Piye. ‘Take this man
with you, he will translate your requirements to the locals and, I
suspect, see through any attempt to deceive us as to their cargoes.’
He returned his attention to Avidus. ‘Which leaves the twin remaining
issues of food and water.’
‘Grain storage is easy enough, Tribune. The legion’s craftsmen are
numerous enough to have the granaries rebuilt within two or three
days.’ Scaurus nodded. Legion construction teams had been among
the first men up the ravine’s slope, and had been ordered to set to
work repairing the storerooms in readiness for the grain that had
been painstakingly carried south in the legion’s baggage train. ‘But
water, I am afraid, is another matter. The fortress’s cisterns have
been broken and made entirely useless. The bastards set fires
beneath them, then broke them with hammers when they became
brittle, and where we will be able to find the right stone, quarry it and
then cut it to shape in that amount of time is beyond me.’
Scaurus shook his head in frustration.
‘And the matter of water is the most urgent of our needs. Every
man’s water bottle will have to be refilled once a day at least, more
often for those taking part in the reconstruction. Which is an
inconvenience now, but once the enemy are camped outside these
walls we will be unable to set foot outside them, and will be
completely cut off from the river. Do you have any thoughts, or is this
final hurdle perhaps too high for us to jump?’
Avidus smiled tightly.
‘Perhaps not, Tribune. I cannot repair the cisterns, not in the time
available, but I reasoned that the lack of rain in this place means that
its builders might perhaps have intended there to be another way to
bring enough water from the river while under siege. And so I looked
at the fortress’s western side most carefully as we approached
across the river, and saw that there is a gulley carved into the rock
face, still lined with wooden planks. When I viewed this feature from
above, in a chamber constructed at the highest point of the fortress,
it was clear to me that it was designed to allow a bucket to be
lowered to the water and raised again. The chamber is connected to
the cisterns by channels which double as roof gutters, to collect rain
when it falls in the seasonal storms. Such an elegant design.’ He fell
silent in contemplation of the system, only speaking again when
Cotta coughed ostentatiously. ‘The chamber has the marks in its
floor of having housed a man-powered winch, but this has been torn
out and presumably burned along with the gates, leaving nothing for
us to work with.’
‘And what would you need to reconstruct it, presuming you had the
skills to do so?’
The engineer raised an eyebrow.
‘I have the tools I need, thanks to our colleague’s foresight in
sending word back to Souan that we would require every kind of
implement.’
Marcus had dispatched a message down the river with the news of
the Premnis’s abandonment, warning Scaurus that Avidus’s men
would need a wide range of tools, were they to bring the fortress
back to a usable condition. The resulting mass door-to-door
requisition had yielded up a cornucopia of construction equipment,
from spades and picks for simple labouring to the finer tools required
for carpentry and masonry. There had even been a blacksmith’s
forge, the latter perhaps a step too far in Cotta’s amused opinion at
the time, as his colleague had gloated over the equipment. The
resulting widespread and genuine sense of outrage throughout the
riverside town had been assuaged to some degree by Scaurus’s
gold, although the tribune had confided to his men that he feared the
day would be remembered as a disaster by the local tradesmen for
years to come, hardly helped by the way Avidus’s men had been
unable to restrain their glee at having tools in their hands again.
‘And in the absence of the cisterns the system was designed to
use, we can probably use the clay grain jars, once they are emptied
into the granaries. What I do not have, however …’ the African
continued, ‘is either the wood or the rope required to construct such
a winch. Or, for that matter, a suitable bucket to lift the water up from
the river. Although I may have found something that can be used to
construct one, if we can get hold of enough charcoal to fire up that
furnace we brought from Souan. Although the locals might be a little
unhappy with what I’m going to propose.’

‘All things considered, I’d say we’ve done about as well as I could
have hoped for when we set out from Koptos. We have the ability to
punish any force sent to break down our gates grievously, and in a
day or two we’ll be protected against their archers as well.’
Marcus and Scaurus were walking around the fortress’s walls in
the cool of the evening, as had become their routine after several
long days supervising the myriad of tasks that needed to be
completed before the enemy army’s arrival curtailed their efforts to
make Premnis defendable. Marcus stepped over the blanket-
wrapped body of a legionary, raising his vine stick to recognise the
salute of the sentry left awake to watch for any sign of an enemy
presence on the plain to their east while his fellows slept alongside
their ballista. The bolt-thrower crews were exhausted from a long
day hauling wooden planks confiscated from the passing shipping up
the ravine and onto the walls, and were sleeping like dead men, for
the most part. Their loads were stacked neatly against the wall’s
parapet, ready to be used by the legion’s craftsmen to raise a
protective shield against the enemy archery that would almost
certainly be directed at the artillery that had been installed on the
rampart, engines having been installed in numbers so great that
there was no more than a few paces between each one and its
neighbours. Marcus nodded at his superior’s statement, gesturing to
the squat tower that interrupted the rampart’s run behind them.
‘And we have gates to keep them out, if they manage to reach the
walls.’
The river blockade that Abasi had instituted at Scaurus’s orders
had proven remarkably effective at providing the materials needed
for Avidus’s reconstruction of the vital gates, more than one
disgusted master unwillingly accepting a promissory note in return
for their cargoes of timber, thick planks of a hardwood so dark it was
almost black, and hard enough to stop an arrow dead at twenty
paces. So dense had the timber proven that the carpenters had been
forced to painstakingly drill guide holes before hundreds of heavily
studded nails could be driven into the wood, as a further defence
against any attempt to hack them down. Construction of the triple-
layered gates had been overseen by the hard-eyed centurion, all
trace of his usually relaxed character vanishing as he had inspected
the work with the unforgiving air of a man who had no intention of
being disappointed. Both his own men and the legionaries assisting
them had breathed easier when he had disappeared back to the wall
to check on the progress the building crew were making in
reinstating the stones that would provide mounting points for the
heavy slabs of wood. Their dead weight had been laboriously
dragged up the ravines on either side of the fortress, Avidus noting
with glee the iron hinge posts that had been left in place when the
masonry in which they were fixed had been thrown down the steep
slopes.
‘The fools have made my job here so much easier, and all for the
sake of a few hours with a hammer and chisel. Amateurs. An
engineer would have left this fortress as a field of stones.’
Once the stonework had been rescued from where it was
languishing in the ravine – gangs of legionaries toiling to drag each
piece back onto level ground with ropes confiscated from the
passing ships, their task made easier by the improvisation of wooden
skids from the offcuts of hardwood – Avidus had ordered the forge to
be lit. Watching with approval as the legion’s smith had coaxed the
fire from a small tongue of flame in a handful of kindling to a roaring
blaze that made any man within a dozen paces sweat profusely, he
had stripped to nothing more than a leather apron to protect his body
from flying sparks, ignoring Cotta’s jibes at the sight of his bare
backside. Standing alongside the craftsman, he had assisted the
burly soldier in the heating and hammering of iron scavenged from a
broken sword, the two men working until it was formed into a
massive pin which, bolted to a door, would allow it to hang from the
barrel already embedded in the stone. Examining the resulting piece
of ironwork, fresh from the quench and still warm to the touch, he
had clapped the smith on the shoulder and told him to make another
eleven exactly the same before moving onto his next task. Labouring
in the sweltering heat of the water system’s winch chamber with half
a dozen of his men, he had not been seen for the best part of two
days, and had answered all attempts at communication with
instructions to be left alone other than to accept meals and pots of
water.
The two men halted their progress around the walls to stare out
over the plain that stretched out before the fortress in the only
practical direction for an enemy to approach.
‘It’s strange to imagine that there could be thirty thousand men
staring back at us when we look over this wall in just a few days.’
Scaurus nodded.
‘Not for the first time, I find myself wondering if I haven’t bitten off
just a little too much to swallow. On all our behalves.’
‘It’s not as if you had very much choice. Staying in Koptos would
only have got us all killed, and the town destroyed. To have pulled
back down the river would have been to cede Berenike to Kush, and
to advance out to meet them would have resulted in the destruction
of the last body of men capable of resistance in the whole of the
province. Which means that this is the only place you could have
chosen to make a stand for five hundred miles or more, so it was
either stop here or go on upriver and sack their cities one at a time
until they caught and overran us. Augustus’s general Petronius knew
it, and it’s as true now as it was then.’
The tribune grimaced out into the darkness.
‘It being the only realistic option doesn’t make it any more
palatable, when you consider that it will undoubtedly attract our
enemy onto us like flies onto fresh dung. Their king will be convinced
that he has us in a trap of our own making, given his orders to make
this place unusable. And Petronius wouldn’t have been able to make
peace without the fact that his master knew he couldn’t spare the
forces to fight and was willing to pay handsomely to make friends
with Kush instead. We quite obviously don’t have that option, and the
man commanding the enemy army will know that all too well. Once
they’re camped out there on that plain then that, I’m very much
afraid, is likely to be that. Not that we’ll even be able to offer them
very much resistance, if Avidus can’t get his water winch built and
working.’
 ‘The last I heard he’d sent his carpenters away to sleep and told
them to leave him to it. Something about a ratchet mechanism.’
The two men walked around the wall, making their way carefully
past the sleeping bodies, and tapped on the door of the winch
chamber, stepping back as a wild-eyed Avidus swung it open with a
bellow of something close to rage.
‘Could you all just fuck off! I—’ Falling silent in the face of his
astonished officers, he came wearily to attention and saluted, his
eyes red with fatigue. ‘Tribune.’
‘You look exhausted, Centurion. Is there anything we can do to
assist?’
The engineer shook his head wearily.
‘No, thank you. I’m finished, more or less. I’m just making the last
adjustments to the …’ He turned away, gesturing them to follow.
‘Quicker to show you.’
The two men followed him into the chamber, where the object of
his efforts over the previous two days sat in the centre of a circle of
oil lamps carefully positioned on small plinths in bowls of water to
remove any risk of fire from the sawdust strewn liberally across the
room’s wooden floor. Evidently designed to be powered by men, the
winch had eight thick wooden bars protruding from a central drum, a
thick beam rising six feet above it.
‘The winch will be turned by sixteen men at a time, one team
working and another resting. Working together they will have the
ability to lift a bucket of water as tall as a man from the riverbank all
the way up here a dozen times an hour. Once it’s up here, we simply
pour its contents into the tank there’ – he pointed at a clay tank, still
dark from its recent casting, a drainage channel opening from one
side and running away through the chamber’s wall – ‘and it will flow
out into the gutter network, which my men have fixed so that the
water can be diverted to the water storage points as we wish. It
would have been finished this morning if only I could have made the
ratchet work the first time.’
Scaurus calculated swiftly.
‘We’ll be able to fill every grain jar we have within a couple of
days. And keep filling them even once we’re under siege, as long as
the artillery can keep the Kushites from interfering. So all you need
now, I presume, is rope and a bucket. And the rope’s easy enough,
but the bucket …? They can’t have been stupid enough to leave it,
surely?’
‘No.’ The African pointed to the opening in the chamber facing the
river, large enough to allow the bucket to be tipped into the channel.
‘They threw it into the river, from what your tame Kushite told me.
And even if I knew where it sank, there’s no way I’d be going looking
for it, not with the number of crocodiles I’ve seen break the surface
from up here. Big bastards too, big enough to take a man under and
never be seen again. No, there’s no bucket, but I might have the
answer to that, just as long as you managed to get me the beeswax I
asked you for?’

‘You’re going to make a bucket. With beeswax.’ Cotta stared at

Avidus with an expression caught somewhere between disbelief and
hilarity. ‘When you’re done with that, perhaps you could make a
sword out of shit? I could drop you out a nice—’
‘And you would care to place a wager on that? I mean as to
whether I can make a bucket using wax, rather than your renowned
ability to generate shit of all varieties?’
The veteran centurion recoiled slightly, his eyes narrowing at the
African’s response. The sound of men working on the rampart in the
morning’s relative cool was a dull buzz in the background as the
legion’s carpenters busied themselves building the protective
wooden screens that Scaurus had ordered to be erected along the
wall’s length, although the activity on the ground below them was
clearly attracting a good deal of interest. Avidus had led his work
party out into the morning sunshine, and ordered the forge to be
prepared for use again, directing his men to erect it only paces from
the trestle table on which a piece of wax the size of a big man’s
ribcage had been placed to warm. The scene was completed by a
freshly dug firepit, its steep-sided three-foot-wide bowl filled with
kindling and fire logs, while a circle of short wooden posts had been
embedded into the ground around it, protruding by no more than a
foot.
 ‘Would I care to place a wager on it? Of course I don’t want to …’
Cotta pondered the idea’s impossibility for a moment. ‘How much?’
‘One of these.’ The African opened his hand and tossed the
aureus that had been hidden in his fingers up into the air, a glinting
flicker of gold. ‘Nothing, to a man as rich as you. Of course the main
purpose of the wager wouldn’t be the coin, it would be the look on
your face when you are forced to cough it up. Unless, of course, you
lack the stomach to back up your customary disbelieving humour?’
‘Can you make a bucket with wax?’ Cotta turned to Marcus and
Scaurus, but found their expressions as uncertain as his own. ‘If you
can, then I’m buggered if I can work out how. So yes, I’ll cough up a
gold if you can make a bucket with wax and it holds water when it’s
being dragged up and down that cliff. If you think you can do that,
then have at it.’
Avidus turned away, bellowing orders at his waiting men.
‘Light the forge, and the fire! Legionary Zeno, to me! It’s time to
show us the result of all that fooling about with clay when you should
have been doing something sensible like drinking and chasing
women! And you, Hercules, go and do that thing you and I discussed
yesterday!’
While his chosen man waddled off into the fortress with a
purposeful gait, accompanied by several men carrying hammers and
crowbars, a slightly-built member of Avidus’s century walked over
with a small canvas tool roll in one hand, saluting Scaurus and then
turning to smile beatifically at Cotta, who shook his head at the
soldier’s smug expression.
‘He’s the one who gets the coin if this madness actually works,
right? I always wondered what use a scrawny streak of piss like him
was to a bunch of hairy-palmed latrine-diggers like you lot.’
Avidus smiled knowingly at his friend, extending an open palm to
gesture at his soldier as the legionary unrolled his tool bag and laid
out his equipment, an assortment of paddles and scraping tools with
which to manipulate and shape the wax.
‘It’s true, he’s not the biggest of us, the fastest with a pickaxe or
the cleverest when it comes to numbers and designs, but I keep him
around because he has a skill that no other man in my century can
match.’
‘Which is an ability to make useless fucking buckets out of wax,
right?’
‘Which is his artistry, you barbarian. He has a better eye than any
of us, and an ability with his hands to express that vision in clay that
would make a thirty-year-experienced potter weep tears of pure joy.’
Cotta shrugged.
‘Doesn’t matter how pretty he makes this wax bucket of yours, it’ll
still be as much use as a silk shield.’
Ignoring him, a look of concentration stealing over his face, the
artist walked across to the massive lump of wax that had been
placed on a trestle table in the sun to warm, walking around it and
prodding with a finger to gauge its readiness for use.
‘Don’t tell me, like all great sculptors he can see the bucket inside
the wax and simply has to free it from its prison.’
Scaurus shook his head.
‘Do be quiet now, Centurion. If you put this man off his work it
might well cost you more than an aureus.’
The veteran shrugged and fell silent, watching with the same
fascination as the dozen men gathered around Avidus’s artist, as the
slightly-built soldier nodded decisively and set to work.
‘You remember the specification?’
The soldier shot Avidus a meaningful look and turned back to his
work, humming a marching song to himself as he used his tools to
start working the soft wax, piece by piece, first creating a flat disc
three feet across and then setting to work to build a rim around its
edge. Under the coaxing of his skilled hands the shape of a bucket
began to grow, but unlike anything anyone present had ever seen,
larger and wider than any of them could have imagined. Avidus
nodded his approval as the massive cylinder grew higher by
fractions. After an hour or so, with a pair of steps built into opposite
sides of the bucket’s inner wall, to allow a man to climb into and out
of it if need be, he stepped back and took a drink of water, nodding
to Avidus who barked an order at the waiting engineers.
‘Lower the table to the ground. Don’t touch the fucking wax!’
 Resuming work, the artist began to work faster, the object of his
skills seeming to sprout from his fingertips as he worked with an
intensity that reduced the watchers, who had previously conducted
conversations under their breath to avoid disturbing him, to absolute
silence. When the sculpture was four feet high he called for a
stepladder and kept working, not stopping the process of building the
bucket until it was as high as a big man’s shoulders. Working with
swift, confident skill he crowned it with a continuous circle of eyelets
that rose from the rim, their holes large enough to take a stout rope,
and sturdy enough to lift it from the ground even filled to the brim
with water, had they been fashioned with metal. Cotta shook his
head in bafflement.
‘The design looks sound enough. But how will those eyelets ever
hold?’
He pointed to the base of the bucket where a single wax loop
protruded to the side, apparently to allow a cord pull to tilt the
bucket’s rim beneath the river’s surface.
‘I mean, it must be obvious to anyone that such a flimsy—’
Zeno stepped away from the sculpture and nodded to Avidus.
‘It is complete.’
The African barked an order over his shoulder, the men working
on the wall momentarily falling silent, such was its vehemence.
‘Bring out the clay!’
Abasi shared a moment of amusement with his tribune, raising an
eyebrow at his colleague’s unexpectedly vigorous exercise of
command.
‘That’s a powerful pair of lungs you have, colleague. Perhaps you
have missed your way in life, Centurion?’
Ignoring the levity, Avidus shouted an order at the men emerging
from the fortress gates with heavy pots, each one held between two
soldiers.
‘Get it covered in mud before it softens too much and starts to
sag.’
Obeying his order, a pair of men started scooping cool, barely
viscous clay out of the pots, slathering it onto the wax with the speed
and dexterity of long practice, careful not to damage the bucket’s
eyelets as they worked to cover it in an inch-thick layer of mud.
Relaxing somewhat as the wax disappeared beneath its cool, wet
covering, Avidus strolled across to Cotta with a grin.
‘The secret ingredient, of course, is the volcanic ash I took from
that builder’s yard in Souan. The tenth part that I ordered to be
stirred into the mud will prevent that mould from cracking when we
heat it.’
‘Mould?’
‘What, you thought I was going to try to use a wax bucket to pull
half a ton of water out of the river? I said I would make a bucket
using wax, not with wax!’
Chuckling to himself, he walked away to supervise the lighting of
the fire, watching critically as his men applied bellows to encourage
the charcoal into incandescent life. Satisfied with their progress, he
turned away and barked out a fresh command at the fortress.
‘Barrels! And get some clay on the bottom of that thing, now the
sun’s dried out the first layer. And don’t forget the drain holes!’
His chosen man emerged from the fortress through the newly
repaired eastern gate at the head of two teams of men bearing a pair
of wooden barrels, one heavier than the other to judge from the way
the soldiers carrying it were straining under their load. Waiting until
the two barrels had been placed beside the mud-covered sculpture,
Avidus gave the empty container a close inspection, taking care to
ensure that the fine wire mesh nailed to one end was suitably
secured by the iron strips nailed across its diameter, and that the
wooden beams by which they had carried it out of the fortress were
firmly fixed to its body. Nodding his satisfaction to the men who had
built it, he turned his attention back to the fire.
‘Perfect. Start counting and give it a good puff with the bellows
every time you get to fifty, just to keep it warming up. Right, let’s get
another layer of clay on that bucket.’
The wax sculpture’s previously well-defined shape had vanished
under the successive applications of clay, but the African ordered his
men to continue until it was uniformly covered by two inches of the
thick Nile mud, except for a pair of holes in eyelets on opposite sides
of its circumference. Waiting until the clay had lost the dark colouring
imparted by its water content, baked dry by the rapidly increasing
heat of the sun, which was now almost directly overhead, he tapped
at the mould experimentally and then nodded his satisfaction.
‘Put it in the barrel. Carefully! The man who breaks it can go and
refill the jars with mud, and if the crocodiles don’t get him, the heat
will!’
Working with delicate care, two of his men lifted the clay mould,
now heavy enough to make them strain with the effort as they
climbed onto steps placed either side of the barrel, carefully lowering
it down onto the wire mesh at its bottom.
‘Get the pebbles in! Quickly now, the fire’s ready!’
A team of engineers worked swiftly to fill the barrel with handfuls of
small, rounded stones from the other barrel, being careful to pack
them around the clay mould, and once their level reached the top of
the barrel, they fixed a disc of mesh the match of the one already
installed at the other end with dozens of U-shaped nails, securing it
with more iron strips. Avidus contemplated the finished result for a
moment before shaking his head.
‘Done, for better or worse. Pray to your gods that this works,
gentlemen!’ He waved his engineers forward. ‘Get it on the fire!’
Eight men stepped up and positioned themselves, two for each
end of the bars fixed to the barrel’s side, then smartly lifted its heavy
weight and positioned it over the glowing coals, resting its weight on
the circle of embedded posts to suspend it over the coals.
‘Turn the sand glass!’ Avidus turned to his forgemaster with a look
of enquiry, and the heavily muscled blacksmith nodded to confirm his
readiness. ‘Bring out the bronze!’
‘Bronze?’
The African nodded at Cotta, examining the forge’s incandescent
fire carefully.
‘It melts at a lower temperature than iron, which means that we
can heat it until it becomes liquid and still keep it enclosed in an iron-
pouring bucket, unless we’re stupid enough to let it get hot enough to
melt that as well.’
‘But where did you get that much bronze from?’
 A procession of soldiers was carrying heavy pieces of metal out of
the fortress, stacking them neatly beside the iron bucket that would
be used to heat them until they turned from solid to liquid.
‘I had Hercules, a man famously lacking any regard for the gods
which, of course, makes his nickname all the more amusing, take a
hammer to the statue of whatever goddess that was in the temple.’
Avidus stared levelly at the bemused veteran. ‘What’s the matter,
Cotta? You suddenly look a bit pale.’
‘You …’ The older man shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’re going
to use the statue of a goddess to make a bucket, for fuck’s sake?
Nothing good can come of such a thing!’
Avidus shrugged.
‘It’s a risk we’ll have to take, if we’re going to avoid being up to our
balls in angry warriors once the Kushites turn up looking for our
blood.’
‘And you don’t think melting down whoever that goddess was is
going to piss them off just a tiny bit?’
‘It’s a risk I decided to accept, Centurion.’ Scaurus stepped
forward and looked at the pieces of shattered bronze with interest.
‘Whoever she was, she’s no deity of mine. The Lightbringer will
protect us from her wrath, so I have sacrificed to him and sought his
intercession.’
‘And I have prayed to the Lord my God to protect us from the
anger of this false idol’s worshippers. No harm can come of this.’
Scaurus graciously accepted the Christian’s statement of belief
with a small bow.
‘And as Centurion Avidus says, it’s either this or we start running
from the king of Kush – although quite where we’d run to is a difficult
question to answer.’ He turned to look at the fire. ‘How long must that
mould cook for?’
They watched in fascination as the goddess’s fragments were
placed into a large iron pot over the forge fire, the smith using a
three-foot-long iron rod with a scoop at its end to prod the bronze as
it softened and started to melt. Sporadic cracking noises issued from
the fire barrel, as the stones that were holding the mould upright
shattered into pieces, the intense heat finding their flaws and
cracking them open with its brutal strength.
‘That’s the fifth sand glass empty, Centurion!’
Avidus examined the barrel containing the mould critically.
‘It should be ready. Very well, let’s get it turned. And in the name of
all the gods, don’t drop it!’
All eyes were on his men as they struggled with the barrel’s
weight, gingerly turning it over in a shower of dust and stone
fragments. A stream of hot wax poured from the lower of the two
drain holes, splattering across the sand in gobbets and strands as it
flowed out of the clay mould, the initial rush quickly subsiding to a
gentle trickle.
‘Put it back on the fire that way up and give it another two glasses,
then let’s have it off the heat and see what we’ve got. How’s that
bronze doing?’
Waiting until their centurion’s ordained timing had been fulfilled,
the sweat-soaked engineers turned the barrel over again to present
the mould’s top edge, crowbarred the mesh off the wooden rim and
then tipped it gingerly onto its side, using heavy, padded gloves to
pull the remaining pebbles from inside the bucket. Avidus stared at
the clay mould with undisguised nervousness, speaking slowly and
clearly as he walked around the scorched barrel.
‘All we have to do now is get it out without breaking it. So we’re
going to take our time. We’re going to take it slowly. And we’re going
to treat that clay like it’s the most important thing there’s ever been in
our lives, because it is. There’s no more wax, so if we break this one
we’re done here, understood?’ He knelt, taking a grip of the clay
barrel’s rim, tugging it towards him experimentally. ‘One of you on
either side, two of you ready to get hold of the other end when it
comes out.’
Working with slow, careful movements, Avidus talking continually
as they extracted the mould, they placed it in the pre-dug hole with
the top third protruding above the ground, its base resting in a nest
of blankets to protect it from the stony ground. Placing an iron funnel
carefully into one of the drain holes, having painstakingly judged by
eye which one was fractionally higher than the other, Avidus stalked
across to the forge and eyed the bubbling pot of bronze critically.
‘Let’s get pouring.’
The four largest men in his century stepped forward with a pair of
long iron bars, fitting them through loops set in the forge bucket’s
sides, while another four picked up smaller iron pots with heavily
padded handles, their hands wrapped in glove-like coverings of
similar materials, and came forward with wary but determined
expressions. Avidus looked around at them, raising a finger in
warning.
‘Remember, once the bronze is in the pouring buckets it needs to
go into that mould before you can count to fifty, so don’t hang around
admiring the stuff, get over to the mould and get it poured, then get
out of the way to let the next man at it. And take it steady, right?
Molten metal will have the skin off you to the bone, if you spill it.’
Each man placed his pot on the ground in turn and waited at a
respectful distance as they were filled by the straining engineers,
tipping the forge bucket just enough to deposit a thin stream of the
liquid metal into the pouring vessels, ignoring the splashes of bronze
spitting on the hard ground and raising thin trails of smoke from their
protective leggings. Picking up the filled pots, each man in turn
carried his load across to the mould and poured its contents into the
funnel with deliberate care. Once all four pots had been emptied
twice, Avidus stepped forward and positioned himself by the funnel,
beckoning the next man forward.
‘Slowly … slowly …’ The funnel, heated to a bright pink by the
molten bronze, started to fill with metal. ‘Stop, it’s full. Get the funnel
out and watch out for the overflow.’
Scaurus walked forward, putting an experimental hand close to the
mould’s clay.
‘By the gods, that’s hot. How long should we wait, Centurion?’
Avidus shrugged.
‘We usually leave it until the mould is cool to the touch, Tribune.’
The Roman nodded.
‘In that case I suggest we go about the business of getting the
fortress ready to resist an attack until you call us to see the results of
this magic? I’m sure Centurion Cotta will have a gold aureus ready
by then.’

‘We are as ready as we can be to receive our enemy, gentlemen. We

have enough grain and dried meat to feed our garrison for months, a
supply of water that ought to prove inexhaustible … and which only
cost us a gold aureus …’
Scaurus paused for the inevitable laughs, and Cotta shook his
head in disgust at a subject which had, to his mind, been raised a
good deal more than necessary over the intervening days since the
winch bucket’s forging. As the first of the baked clay had been
chipped away from the bronze beneath, revealing a smooth and
unblemished surface of metal, he had tossed a gold coin at the
waiting sculptor and conceded the victory to Avidus with a dismissive
wave of his hand. And that, he had reasoned to Marcus earlier that
morning, should surely have been enough recognition of his having
lost the wager. Instead of which, he had that morning found a well-
executed, if a little crude, miniature replica of an infantry pattern
sword by his bed on waking, evidently fashioned from a flattened
and dried human stool cut to the approximate shape of a gladius. He
was willing to enjoy a little humour at his own expense, he had
reasoned to his smiling friend, and it was true that a man shouldn’t
have joined if he couldn’t take a joke, but this was a step too far for
the disgruntled centurion.
‘Some funny bastard …’ he had cast a dark stare at Sanga and
Saratos, lurking nearby with blameless expressions, and raised his
voice to be sure they could hear him, ‘or bastards, have got too
much time on his … or their … hands, and when I catch him … or
them … I’ll put each one of his … or their … little presents back
where they came from!’
‘We’ve rebuilt the gates, better than before, and armoured our
walls against enemy archery, which is just as well if the stories of
their prowess with the bow are to be believed. And we have both
sides of the fortress that aren’t bounded by ravines too steep to be a
route of attack covered by a legion’s artillery strength. Unless our
enemy has learned the secrets of siege craft over the last two
hundred years, then I’d say we have a good chance of holding out
for long enough that they’ll think better of the whole thing and retreat
back to their own lands.’
‘And if they choose not to do so, Tribune?’
Scaurus turned to address Demetrius.
‘If they choose to sit under the heat of the day, and, from what I
gather, the rains that come in the mawsim, determined to wait us
out? I will let the twin scourges of incessant boredom and disease
play upon them until the very last day possible, then sally forth and
give them a battle they won’t forget in one lifetime. Petronius faced
similar odds when he faced them in open battle two hundred years
ago and killed their king, and it was old-fashioned Roman discipline
that won the day then, just as it will now.’
The men around the repurposed temple nodded grimly at their
leader’s bellicose sentiment.
‘Trust me, gentlemen, in making our unexpected strategic advance
down the Nilus and taking this place in the name of Rome, we have
achieved something that the king of Meroë will not have thought
possible. We have given him pause for thought, and reasons to be
concerned. The last time Romans advanced into Kushite territory
they got as far as the city of Napata, and defeated the enemy in a
battle that put the most important temple of their religion at our
mercy. I’m sure even Demetrius here can make common cause with
all us unbelievers in celebrating that achievement!’
He paused while the gathered officers chuckled, the Christian
acknowledging his point with a raised hand and a wry smile.
‘But, as he pointed out a moment ago, the king of Meroë is likely
not to allow such a strategic reverse to stand without response. Even
now I expect that he is marching his army, or a good portion of it at
least, in this direction, with every intention of unseating us from our
perch here above the river. He will bring tens of thousands of
spearmen, archers, cavalry, possibly even elephants, and he will
throw them at these walls with every intention of forcing an entry and
putting us to the sword. He will know, as we do, that Augustus’s
general Petronius held off an army of thirty thousand the last time
Rome and Kush fought for control of these walls, but he will be eager
to test our defences, and to discover what strength we have in the
artillery that bested his forebear back then. So make no mistake,
gentlemen, we are going to have to kill a great many of his soldiers
before he recognises that he faces an enemy every bit as implacable
as that which defeated his predecessor. Which means that you will
have to harden your hearts to the slaughter of a lot of hapless men,
and ensure that your legionaries have it in them to keep murdering
Kushite infantrymen even when they are packed against these walls
like lambs in a pen. I know that we can do this, because I’ve watched
in horror and pride on half a dozen battlefields as my men have
visited death and destruction on proud armies, and sent them away
bloodied and reeling from the shock of Rome’s iron fist, but I need to
know that you can do the same. Because any failure of our resolve
will surely result in our deaths, alone and unlamented. Harden your
hearts, gentlemen, and prepare to slaughter our enemies, because
at this stage there can only be one winner. And woe to the defeated!’
 10

‘Their footwork is pretty enough. I wonder how well they’d stand up

to a few cohorts of real men though?’
The assembled centurions nodded at Dubnus’s musing, looking
out over the plain that stretched away to the fortress’s east for more
than a mile until it ran up against a ridge that rose a hundred feet
and more. The enemy army had spent two days setting up an armed
camp designed to prevent a sally by the fortress’s defenders from
catching them unawares, but with that task complete, were now
evidently under orders to prepare for an attack. Marching out over
the wooden bridges that had been laid over a defensive ditch that
ran the full length of their camp’s frontage, they were marshalling
into formation under the gaze of a magnificently armoured horseman
standing out in front of them, apparently untroubled by any potential
threat from the Roman artillery as he stared fixedly at the fortress
walls.
‘There must be twenty thousand of them. It seems that the enemy
are considering a test of our strength.’
Marcus nodded at Qadir’s flatly stated opinion, the two men
watching as the army of Meroë paraded on the open space between
their encampment and the point where, from trial and error and the
loss of a dozen or so men, they had learned was the limit of the
defenders’ ability to strike at them. Along the fortress wall’s length,
ballista crews were waiting behind the wooden shields that had been
erected in front of each engine with only a small slot through which
to shoot, the legionaries peeping through the gaps between their
protection and talking quietly among themselves about the
engagement that now seemed imminent.
 ‘They parade tidily enough, I’ll give them that. I had expected them
to be little more than a mob, but credit where it’s due, that’s not a
bad effort. They might be due a surprise though …’
Cotta nodded in grudging respect for the enemy army’s crisply
formed line, turning to the one-eyed captain of the nearest bolt-
thrower’s crew.
‘Think you can hit them from here, Cyclops?’
The veteran grinned back at him and stroked the words “Lady
Chaos” carved into the wooden body of his ballista fondly, revealing
a spectacularly uneven and gapped set of teeth that was testament
to his long years of service.
‘With this nasty old bitch wound right to the stops, Centurion? I
reckon we could drop a bolt about twenty paces behind their front
rank. Was you looking for another wager?’
Cotta shook his head with a laugh, raising both hands defensively
at the soldier’s good-natured reference to his recent losses. ‘Gods
no, I’ve lost enough gold to the unscrupulous for one lifetime, thank
you! I tell you what, though, you knock that glittering ponce off his
horse and I’ll give you a gold all right, just for the pleasure of
imagining the look on his face.’
‘There will be no targeting of the enemy commander, Centurion
Lucius.’
The four men turned to look at Scaurus as he walked down the
wall towards them with Abasi close behind him, the tribune’s grim
smile betraying the same guilt he always felt when the moment came
to spring a surprise on an enemy.
‘For one thing it’s hardly sporting, and for another, if I allow one
crew to try then all thirty of them will put their shots into him and the
enemy numbers will be more or less unchanged. I want forty bolts
dropping into their ranks, and then another forty, and all before
they’ve even moved from the spot they’re standing on.’ He turned
and looked out over the enemy army with a contemplative
expression. ‘It seems that the time has come to educate our
esteemed foes in the art of not allowing an enemy to know one’s true
capability until the time has come to throw off caution!’
He raised his voice to be heard along the wall’s length.
 ‘First Spear Abasi, if you’ll give the order, perhaps we might begin
shooting before they start coming at us?’
Abasi saluted and turned away, raising his voice in a bellow that
could be heard along the length of the fortress’s eastern wall.
‘Bolt throwers! Wind to full tension and prepare to shoot!’
Lady Chaos’s crew exploded into action with the eager vigour of
men looking forward to seeing just what their machines could
achieve with their iron bow arms cranked back to their maximum
tension. With the bolt thrower wound to the very limit of its ability to
store their energy, they stopped their frantic efforts, their captain
turning his one eye towards his senior centurion and shouting the
expected signal with an arm in the air.
‘Ready!’
All along the wall, crew captains were raising their right arms,
indicating their readiness to shoot, staring intently at their leader as
he waited until the last of them put his hand in the air.
‘Shoot!’
Every engine along the wall’s length loosed their missiles with a
collective hiss and thump that made the hairs on the back of
Marcus’s neck stand on end, the sound all too familiar from a
succession of battlefields over the previous few years. The effect on
the Kushite host was immediate, akin to poking an ants’ nest with a
stick, the ordered formation shivering as the speeding bolts arrowed
down onto the waiting soldiers without warning. The screams and
unintelligible imprecations of the men on the receiving end of such
an unexpected assault were faintly but clearly audible even at such a
distance, each bolt’s arched, whistling trajectory carrying enough
power to kill or maim more than one of the virtually unarmoured men
in the enemy ranks.
‘Again! Keep shooting!’
The legionaries threw themselves into the task of recranking their
machines, arms bulging with the effort as their engine captains
waited behind them with replacement bolts. As each machine
reached its maximum tension, its commander moved forward at the
same moment his panting men stepped aside, smooth choreography
born of years of practice. Placing the missiles onto their machines’
grooved sliders, each captain looked around swiftly to ensure that
his crew had ducked below the level of the bow arms, a precaution
against the risk of being caught by flying debris in the event of a
failure of iron or bow cord, then pulled his machine’s release lever
again. The thumping salvo of bolts was a little ragged, as the faster
crews started to outpace their comrades, but the impact on the
Kushite army was every bit as powerful as before.
‘Looks like you owe someone a gold, Centurion.’
Cotta raised an eyebrow at the engine captain waiting beside him,
bolt in hand, while a fresh pair of men strained to recrank his
machine. The Kushite general had been unhorsed, the beast
bucking and kicking in uncontrollable circles at the pain of a missile
embedded in its thigh, its rider stretched full length and unmoving on
the plain’s rocky surface.
‘Possibly so, but not you. I saw you ignore the tribune’s order and
still miss that poor dead bastard by a foot and more.’
Ptolemy had pushed his way to the wall and was staring out from
between two engine shields with the sickened amazement of a man
watching his first battle.
‘Surely they must withdraw? This is pure slaughter, is it not?’
Marcus shook his head at the horrified scribe’s statement.
‘This is nothing more than foreplay. Each bolt might kill or
incapacitate one or two men, and we are shooting forty of them at
the enemy every thirty heartbeats. Were they to stand and meekly
submit to our barrage they would suffer perhaps five thousand
casualties in an hour, if we could maintain our rate of shooting, but
they will not stand there and let us keep this up for very much longer.
At any moment their commander, whoever replaces that dead man,
will order them to advance.’
‘To advance? Into this storm?’
‘Of course. It’s either that or they will be forced to pull back, and no
general is going to tolerate that sort of ignominy at the start of an
assault.’
Another salvo of bolts thumped out into the clear morning air,
drawing a fresh chorus of agony from the enemy ranks, and an
armoured figure stepped out in front of them, raising a sword to point
at the fortress before them and shouting a command whose intent
was unmistakable. The Kushite front line lurched into motion, spear-
wielding infantrymen obeying the command to advance with
commendable speed despite the withering volleys of bolts tearing
into their ranks.
‘How is it that these men are moving forward?’
The Aegyptian shook his head in amazement, turning to Marcus
with a questioning look.
‘Their lives to this day have been as different from yours as yours
is from mine.’ The Roman looked out over the parapet as another
salvo of bolts arrowed down into the Kushite host. ‘They have been
drilled from their first day to obey orders, just like our legionaries.
Any man who disobeys is beaten, and any man who continues to
disobey is executed, in front of his comrades, to make sure the
lesson of his painful demise acts as a suitable motivation to them.’
‘But to march forward into this?’
The Roman shrugged.
‘Doing something, doing anything, is better than standing and
taking this sort of punishment. Those men will be focused on staying
in line, on stepping over the bodies of their dead, on whatever chant
their under-officers have started to keep their minds off what we’re
doing to them. And they will believe that once they are within a
hundred paces of our walls they will be safe from these bolt
throwers, because they will have been told that we cannot point
them that low. An illusion that will be shattered soon enough. But
before that …’
He looked around at the archers waiting behind the ballista crews,
sharing a moment’s glance with Qadir and nodding to the Hamian,
who turned to look at Scaurus as the enemy army advanced past the
markers that had been placed two hundred and fifty paces from the
fortress walls. The tribune nodded his approval, and the centurion
raised his voice to be heard over the constant rattle of bolt throwers
being cranked.
‘Archers … ready!’
The bowmen nocked arrows and drew them back, pulling every
last inch of tension into their bows, waiting for the command to loose.
 ‘Archers! At two hundred paces! Shoot!’
Loosing their arrows blindly over the heavy ox-hide shields, the
Aegyptians drew fresh arrows from their quivers and loosed again,
and again, their movements both measured and swift with the
assuredness of long practice.
‘They do not look for targets?’
Marcus shook his head at the scribe’s question.
‘No, there is no need. The enemy ranks are packed so tightly that
an arrow lofted over the shields will find a target as it falls to earth
nine times out of ten. And once the infantry have passed through
that rain of iron, the archers following up behind them will be forced
to endure the same punishment. Our bowmen can empty their
quivers without ever having seen the men they are shooting at and
still know that they will have hit a man with most of their shafts.’
The Kushite line came on, seeming to accelerate as it passed the
one-hundred-pace marker with an understandable eagerness to get
inside the effective range of the ballistas that were pecking gaps in
their ranks with every twanging thump of a bolt being spat across the
plain. Arrows were beginning to slap against the ox-hide curtains that
protected the ballista crews, as the enemy archers advanced into
range behind their infantry comrades. An arrow flicked through the
gap between the two sheets of leather protecting Lady Chaos’s crew
and took one of the winders in the throat, his look of puzzlement
turning to first horror and then panic as blood welled from the wound
and poured down his windpipe. The one-eyed crew captain turned
away from the machine, barking an order at one of the reserve
winders to replace him, pulling out his dagger as he gripped his
soldier by the arm and thrust the blade unerringly up under the
legionary’s jaw, felling him instantly before lowering his body to the
ground with an almost reverential gentleness. Looking up to find the
eyes of the officers on him, he shrugged.
‘I wouldn’t let a dog die that way, much less a tent mate. Known
him ten years …’
Turning back to the bolt thrower, he re-galvanised his men with
sharp, barked orders, and Dubnus tapped the goggle-eyed Ptolemy
on the arm.
 ‘It’s rude to stare, and perhaps not wise when men have just lost a
comrade?’
‘But he …’
‘You heard what he said. That was a mercy killing. That’s what
men who have come to be close do for their brothers when there is
the need. You might have to grant me that release, one of these
days.’
‘And would you—’
‘Oh yes.’ Dubnus grinned at the horrified secretary. ‘Without a
moment’s hesitation.’
‘Gentlemen?’ They turned back to find Scaurus pointing down the
wall’s length. ‘The enemy have reached the gates.’
Hurrying down the rampart, they found Abasi leading a group of
men forward from fires at the fighting platform’s rear, each pair
holding a heavy iron cook pot between them. Their hands were
covered in heavy padding to prevent them from being burned by the
pots, whose contents were roiling with slow, fat bubbles forcing their
way up through the thick, noisome contents. From the ground below
them the roar of the Kushites railing at the gate was shockingly loud,
and Marcus stepped forward to crouch behind the parapet, steeling
himself momentarily before pushing his body up to peer over the
edge. The scene below was one of chaotic purpose, the mass of
enemy infantry pressed forward against the walls on both sides of
the gate while a space remained clear in front of the massive black
wooden doors. In that clear area, the massed infantry was held back
by a semi-circle of ornately equipped temple guards whose terrible
authority had the soldiers shrinking away from them. A dozen heavily
built men were swinging axes at the wooden doors in turn, the bright
silver blades of their weapons chopping fragments away from the
heavy ebony planks.
With a flicker of motion, so fast that the Roman wondered if he had
imagined it, an arrow bounced off his helmet in a moment that would
remain with him for the rest of his life; he ducked back behind the
parapet as another flicked over his head.
‘The doors are holding, but given long enough they’ll cut a way
through.’
 Abasi looked at Scaurus questioningly.
‘Shall we end their efforts, Tribune?’
The Roman nodded dourly, and his first spear turned to the two-
man teams squatting beside their iron pots.
‘Run to the edge, hurl the contents of your pot over the men
attempting to hack away the gates and then get down before the
enemy archers use you for target practice! You and you’ – he
pointed to the first pair – ‘go!’
The two men stood without hesitation, hauling their pot forward at
the run and stopping a foot from the wall, heaving its semi-liquid
contents out in a viscous arc that spattered the ground below with a
sticky, boiling mixture of sand and animal fat. The axemen screamed
in agony, their first bellows simple astonished outrage at the sudden
incandescent pain, as the boiling fluid scalded their half-naked
bodies, the screams that followed increasingly desperate as they
fruitlessly scrabbled to remove the boiling sand that was continuing
to flay their skin.
‘Torch.’
Abasi held out a hand to take a burning brand, stepping up behind
an ox-hide curtain and peeping around it momentarily to toss it into
the middle of the thrashing axemen. The oil, puddled in the rocky
ground’s slight dips and already heated close to the point of its
volatility, ignited with a crackle, and three of the writhing bodies were
instantly wreathed with flames as the oil covering their bodies caught
light. The tightly packed body of infantrymen pressed up against the
wall shivered, as those that could see the agonies being experienced
by the burning men before them began to cast anxious glances up at
the wall, and Abasi looked back at Scaurus questioningly.
‘Use it all, First Spear. Now is not the time for restraint.’
At the Aegyptian’s command, the men waiting with the remaining
pots came forward, pushing aside the curtains to empty their
contents down onto the men hemmed in against the stonework
below. One of them jerked with an arrow’s impact and fell headlong
from the wall, taking the pot he was carrying with him and nearly
dragging his comrade over in his wake, but his falling scream was
lost in the howling din of the infantrymen caught under the scalding
rain. More torches were tossed over the wall, and within seconds,
dark, oily smoke was billowing up as the Kushites’ layered linen
armour caught fire and turned the deadly mixture’s victims into
human torches. Marcus peered over the wall again, his stomach
roiling at the smell of burned hair and flesh, shaking his head in
horror as a dozen or more men, unable to scream as they lived out
their last, agonised moments, staggered aimlessly among their
comrades, who pushed them away in terror of suffering the same
fate, then fell to the ground as the fire overcame them. No horn
sounded, but no signal was needed to tell the Kushites to retreat; a
sudden headlong dash away from the walls by those men closest to
the defences swept the remainder of the army back towards their
starting point. Abasi turned to the ballista crews, who had for the
most part stepped forward to peer past their ox-hides at the horrific
spectacle below, barking an order that was heard along the length of
the wall.
‘Who told you animals to stop? Keep shooting! Shoot down
anyone trying to stop them from running!’
The archers, resupplied with refilled quivers by soldiers running to
and from supply points in the streets beneath the wall, bent their
bows and lofted arrows high into the air above the retreating army,
their missiles falling indiscriminately among the fleeing infantry, while
the ballista crews obeyed their leader’s barked order and shot their
foot-long bolts at any man attempting to stem the frantic tide of the
enemy retreat. Scaurus looked around the shield behind which he
and Marcus had taken shelter from the Kushite archers’ sporadic
harassment, then stepped out from behind its cover as it became
evident that the enemy bowmen were no longer in any position to
shoot up at the walls.
‘They won’t stop running until they’re all back in their own camp.
How many do you think we killed?’
‘More than a thousand. Perhaps twice as many as that.’ Cotta had
joined them at the parapet, looking down at the scattered bodies of
the dead and wounded. ‘It’s not the numbers that matter though, is
it? We’re never going to be able to kill them all, and even if we could,
they probably have more men available. The point is that they won’t
come at us again in a hurry, not knowing that we can slaughter them
like that.’
Avidus climbed the last steps up onto the fighting surface, coming
from the direction of the gate.
‘How did your new doors stand up to the attack, Centurion?’
The engineer nodded contentedly.
‘Better than I expected, even after all the problems we had cutting
the planks to size. The damage they managed to inflict before you
set fire to them is minimal, pretty much. They won’t be battering their
way in here any time soon.’
Scaurus nodded, looking out over the strewn corpses of the
enemy dead, grimacing as a blood-covered infantryman close to the
walls, more corpse than man, falteringly raised a shaking hand in a
familiar gesture, extending a thumb at his own throat in a silent plea
for a merciful death.
‘Indeed. We can only hope that they have sufficient fellow-feeling
for their brothers-in-arms to come and retrieve them for a decent
form of farewell to this life. And wonder what their next means of
attack will be.’

‘Here they come!’

The ballista crews leapt to their feet from the places where they
had been sitting, playing dice and knucklebones, or curled up
against the parapet to catch some sleep after the exertions of the
day. Fed and watered at their weapons, they had waited for a
second attempt on the fortress walls that had not materialised, and,
with the sun sinking slowly into the west behind them, the advancing
Kushites were perfectly illuminated. Two thousand strong, they were
marching slowly, apparently weaponless, out onto the plain before
the fortress, stopping when the man at their head barked a terse
order without breaking his own stride.
Abasi walked to the wall’s edge and stared hard at the advancing
Kushite for a moment before shouting an order to his men.
‘Track him, but do not shoot! I’ll wield the scourge on any crew that
looses a bolt at him myself!’ He turned to Scaurus and Marcus. ‘I
suggest we see what he has to say for himself, before we decide
whether to turn him inside out.’
The single figure walked steadily across the field of dead and
dying men, one or two of them raising a hand to beckon him,
diverting from his path towards the fortress gate only when forced to
do so by a knot of bodies that seemed to have been cut down at the
same moment by the remorseless flail of the defenders’ artillery. He
came to a halt twenty paces from the gate and looked up at the
officers gathered on the wall, his bearing confident and erect.
Dressed in shining armour, his helmet and the individual scales were
inlaid with gold, and the hilt of his sword appeared to have been
made from a solid billet of the precious yellow metal. His shining
armour and black skin were clean, with no trace of the bloody rout
that had been inflicted on his army hours before.
‘It’s not exactly the demeanour one might expect from a defeated
enemy, is it?’
Scaurus stepped forward, Qadir motioning a pair of his men to
flank him with their arrows nocked and ready to draw.
‘Have you come to discuss terms on behalf of your king, officer of
Meroë?’
The Kushite barked a laugh, his reply as dismissive in tone as if he
were addressing a servant. His Greek was fluent, if heavily
accented, the speech of a man taught the language by his own
people, and from an early age, Marcus mused.
‘I am Tantamani, Roman, priest of Amun, altar-master of Meroë
and the leader of my ruler’s army! In beneficent concern for all our
people, I have been bidden to retrieve the bodies of our dead, so
that we may mourn their loss and give them a fitting funeral! I
assume that you will allow this!’
He stared up at Scaurus and waited for a reply to his assertion,
and after a moment the tribune replied in an amused tone.
‘I will, on this occasion! You were not to know that we would kill so
many of your men! The next time, however …’
The Kushite waved a hand dismissively.
‘And why would you imagine that we would be stupid enough to
come at you in the same way a second time? Already my officers are
discussing other ways to evict you from our property, and you will
discover in due course that the army of Meroë is every bit as
inventive as you seem to be!’ He walked slowly over to the
blackened remains of the men who had burned to death in front of
the fortress gates, turning one of the carbonised corpses over with
the toe of his boot. ‘You have done a good job of preparing to repel
our attacks, I will admit this freely! A man who cannot learn from the
successes of others is doomed to repeat his own mistakes for the
rest of his life! And we recognise the skill that you have exercised in
outflanking us down the river, and making this place fit to defend! But
we are not famed for our patience!’
He turned back to the men standing above the gate, putting his
hands on his hips in a gesture of supreme confidence.
‘There is an offer of peace on the table before you. You have only
to swallow a little pride to be allowed free passage back down the
river to your new border city of Koptos, carrying your arms
honourably. You only have to agree to pass under a yoke and
promise never to return to the lands ruled by Meroë, and you will all
live to fight for your empire on another battlefield. Refuse, and we
will simply hold you here until you are forced to surrender from
simple hunger! Or possibly thirst! Accept this generous offer before it
is replaced by another, whose terms will ensure that you never see
your homes again.’
Scaurus stared down at the general for a moment before replying,
shaking his head slowly.
‘Put yourself in my position, Tantamani of Meroë. Can you
honestly say that you would be willing to walk out of here and retreat
back to the north, if you were me?’
The magnificently armoured general shrugged.
‘We both know our duty. And we both serve rulers who would
never consider retreating from such a contest. I simply came to offer
you a means of escape one last time, before we retrieve our dead
and grant mercy to the dying. What you do with that offer is for you
to consider, not me.’
Scaurus nodded.
 ‘And I thank you for your consideration of our likely fates, if we
remain within this fortress. Not that my men’s well-being is either any
responsibility or concern of yours.’
‘As I expected. And hoped. You will all die here, Roman, every one
of you. Some quickly, some not.’
The Kushite general shrugged and turned away, raising his voice
to roar a command in his own language at his waiting soldiers, who
began to fan out across the corpse-strewn plain in pairs to collect the
dead bodies and carry them back to their own lines. The Romans
watched him walk back across the bloodied ground, still looking to
neither left nor right and evidently uninterested in his men’s bloody
task.
‘I can only imagine the resolve necessary to rise to the top of such
an army. That man must be as hard as the ebony that made our
gates impenetrable.’
Abasi stared after the receding figure with a hard expression.
‘He spoke the truth, I believe. They may find other ways to come
at us, but ultimately their strongest weapon is time. All they have to
do is wait.’

‘I can’t believe they’re actually going to try it. Surely any attempt to
attack us from the river can only be suicide?’
Scaurus nodded at his first spear’s incredulous statement, staring
down from the north-west corner of the ramparts at the Nilus’s gentle
curve, the river’s course stretching away into the lands downriver
until it was lost from view in the heat haze. In the middle distance a
flotilla of ships was forming up against the eastern bank, lines of
oarsmen marching aboard to take their places on the rowers’
benches. As each ship was crewed, it pushed away from the bank
and turned north, just as had been the case for every one of the five
days which had passed since the fleet’s arrival from the south, the
ships passing unseen but not unheard in the night. Behind the
watching officers the winch was hoisting another bucket full of water
up into the fortress, the encouraging shouts of the centurion
commanding the men whose strength was turning the capstan
underlaid by the rhythmic thudding of the capstan’s ratchet
mechanism, a sound the Romans had learned to ignore, so familiar
had it become over the past month.
‘I would imagine that those sailors are skilled enough – after all,
they are, to judge from the various commentators, a riverine people.
But will they retain those abilities when their ships are on fire, their
captains dead and wounded, and half of them are lolling over their
oars with arrows in them? I’ve seen the best the Roman navy has to
offer over the last few years, and I can just imagine what the tribune
commanding the Praetorian fleet would say if he were ordered to
attack this fortress.’
Abasi snorted.
‘You know as well as I do, Tribune, that if he were ordered to sail
his fleet off the edge of the world, he would have no choice but to do
as he was told. And neither do these poor fools. Whatever it is that
their commanders plan will reveal itself soon enough, though.
Although I’m sure you’ve noticed that there’s been no sign of any
infantry boarding being practised.’
Marcus looked down at the river, two hundred feet below them,
allowing his practised eye to pick out the potential landing points,
and the approaches to the fortress walls that would have to be
braved.
‘I would assess the odds of their being able to attack us
successfully from the river as being less than one in fifty. If they were
to reach the only point of any value in an assault, at the bottom of
that ravine, and attempt to unload soldiers to attack up that climb,
then that attack would be into the teeth of our bolt throwers and
archers. It would surely be suicide. As must be evident to their
general, I would have expected.’
‘Indeed.’ Scaurus stared out at the line of vessels parading away
down the Nilus. ‘And yet some plan or other has made them spend
the last month gathering what looks like most of their naval strength
on the river. And they’re rowing away downstream to conduct some
sort of exercise where we can’t see them, which I take as an
indication that whatever it is they’re planning will come without
warning and be some sort of coordinated manoeuvre that needs to
be perfected before they can unleash it on us.’
 He looked up and down the lengths of the western and northern
ramparts, both studded with a bolt thrower every twenty paces.
‘Sixteen engines. Will that be enough, I wonder?’ The walls facing
the river had been reinforced by the doubling of their artillery quota
on the day that the Kushite vessels had first been seen on the river
to the north, and Scaurus had ordered the iron pots used to heat up
the rendered animal fat to be moved across the fortress with the
reinforcements. After a moment’s thought he nodded decisively.
‘Have another four machines moved to this wall, First Spear. Do it
now, and do it quickly. There is a fresh purpose to the way those
ships are manoeuvring that makes it seem as if they might mean to
do some business today.’
The senior centurion saluted and turned away, bellowing orders for
four crews to start disassembling their machines’ iron frames for their
movement around the fortress’s broad ramparts. Scaurus turned to
Marcus and pointed down at the river to the north, as worried as the
younger man had ever seen him.
‘Stay here and watch out for whatever it is that they seem to be
planning, Centurion. The first spear and I will go about our morning
rounds as usual, to let the men of the legion see that we consider
ourselves to be the masters of this situation. Whatever it may be.’
Marcus saluted and watched as his superior walked away, the
imperious senior centurion at his side.
‘I’ll miss Abasi, when the time comes to get out of this flea-infested
shithole of a province.’
‘Really, Cotta?’
The veteran scowled at Dubnus’s amusement.
‘What, will I really miss him, or is this really the most disgusting of
all the places I’ve ever been sent to fight in the empire? Both.’
‘It’s not all that bad.’
‘It really is. It was the last time I was here and it still is today. Too
hot, too dry, too Greek … and now we can add “too African” to the
list. I mean, how are we supposed to hold that lot out there off ad
infinitum? I know we can hold them at arm’s length for as long as we
want to, but there’s only so much grain in the stores and they don’t
show any sign of getting bored with waiting us out, do they?’
 The Briton shrugged.
‘There’s a lot that can happen in the time we have left. But I was
really asking how it is you’re going to miss Abasi, if we do get out of
here? For one thing, he’s just the sort of spit and shine officer that
you usually despise, and for another, you know as well as I do that
he’d have you by the balls if he even suspected that you were that
centurion. The one who killed—’
‘Thank you, you oversized Brit. There’s no need to be repeating
that, not here, not now and not ever again. And as to why I’m going
to miss him? Just look at the man.’
All three of them looked down the rampart’s length to where
Scaurus had stopped to talk with the crew of a bolt thrower, Abasi
looming behind him with his gaze fixed on the engine’s captain in
what they knew from experience would be a uniquely forbidding
manner.
‘It isn’t often you meet a man who can intimidate just by breathing,
but there he is. I always thought Julius was a warrior king among his
men, but that man is the king of kings. The men of his legion fear
him, and they hate him, but most of all they worship him. There’ll be
more tears shed for his passing among the old sweats of this
collection of donkey-botherers than when the emperor dies at the
hands of some catamite or other, because he and he alone gave
them their pride back. No, I have to say that I—’
‘Centurions?’
They turned at the nearest ballista captain’s tentative enquiry.
‘Soldier?’
He pointed over the wall to the north wordlessly, and Marcus
strode to the parapet and stared hard upriver.
‘The Kushites seem to have got themselves into some sort of
formation. And they’re rowing upriver. Tribune!’
Scaurus hurried back up the wall’s length and looked out over the
river with a frown of concern.
‘It looks as if our esteemed enemy has worked out what it is they
sailed all these ships down here for. But I’m damned if I can see
what it is that they’re planning. Hurry up those additional machines, if
you can, please, First Spear?’
 Abasi saluted and turned away, roaring encouragement across the
fortress at the men working to disassemble their bolt throwers so
loudly that several of the closest engine crew started visibly. Marcus
and Cotta exchanged knowing looks, but Scaurus’s concern with the
developments playing out before them on the river was too great to
allow for the humour of the moment. He stared at the enemy naval
force as it rowed upriver towards them, still well out of bolt range but
closing the distance with every well-drilled stroke of their oars.
‘They’ve packed those ships in twenty abreast and five deep, like
a riverine infantry line.’ His brow furrowed in thought. ‘It’s almost as if
…’
‘As if they know that we’ll start dropping fire bolts onto them the
moment they’re in range, and they want to give us too many targets
to shoot at?’
Scaurus nodded at Marcus’s opinion.
‘Those are the tactics of a commander willing to lose some ships
to get the others close enough to the fortress to do … what?’
They watched in silence as the enemy fleet worked its way upriver,
Cotta grinning at Marcus despite the tension as Abasi strode back
down the northern rampart behind the sweating crews of the
relocating ballistas, his non-stop tirade of encouraging invective
scourging any man that he deemed not to be giving his all to the
task. Rushing to the indicated positions, the legionaries placed the
bases of their machines down on the rampart’s stone flags and set to
bolting the shooting mechanisms to them.
‘The first crew to be ready to shoot gets a silver apiece from my
own purse!’ The labouring men cheered distractedly at Abasi’s
unexpected largesse, while the waiting crews around them rolled
their eyes in disgust at the newcomers’ apparent good fortune. ‘But if
their first bolt doesn’t fly long, straight and true then they’ll be paying
me back! With interest!’
‘They’ll be in range shortly, First Spear.’
The big man nodded at Scaurus’s warning, stepping back to
address the western wall’s defenders.
‘Bolt throwers! Load fire bolts!’
 The crews leapt into action, heavily muscled winders labouring to
force their strength into the machines’ iron bow arms while other
men took the first bolts from the racks in front of them, their slotted
heads already loaded with folded strips of linen. Dipping the cloth
into pots of warmed animal fat, they waited for a moment to allow the
excess oil to run back before fitting them to the waiting engines’ iron
frames, stepping back and raising their arms to signal readiness to
shoot, the men entrusted with the lighted tapers with which to set fire
to the oil-soaked bolt heads moving forward into the spaces they had
vacated. Abasi waited as the Kushite ships crawled inexorably up
the river below them, calculating by eye the likely best range of his
artillery.
‘Bolt throwers! At maximum range! Target – enemy ships! On the
command to shoot, aim for the middle of a target, light your bolts, let
fly and then keep shooting!’
He waited a moment more, then nodded to himself and shouted
the command for which every man on the wall was waiting.
‘Shoot!’
The first volley sailed out over the river leaving greasy trails of
smoke from their burning loads, arching down into the enemy fleet’s
leading ships at the furthest extent of their range. At least half fell
into the water, vanishing with barely a trace, the better aimed or
luckier shots striking home with immediate and dramatic effect as
their oil-soaked cloths spattered burning fluid across whatever they
hit. In every ship that was struck, men scrambled with buckets of
river water to douse the fires that had been started, flames eagerly
spreading across timbers made bone dry by long exposure to harsh
temperatures and direct sunlight. Marcus watched in fascinated
horror as one vessel’s rowing benches disintegrated into chaos, as
rowers sprayed with burning oil scrambled for the ship’s sides in their
desperate haste to dive into the Nilus’s cool waters, heedless of the
threat lurking beneath the water. Robbed of its motive power on one
side, while the opposite benches continued rowing with all their
strength, the ship veered to the left and collided with its neighbour, a
chorus of distant screams reaching the watching Romans as the
other vessel’s oars were smashed abruptly forward, their butt ends
smearing the hapless men working them across their benches.
‘Keep shooting!’
The first of the relocated ballistas loosed its first shot, and a
moment later the rest of the machines that could bear on the
oncoming fleet loosed a second ragged volley. Their aim adjusted,
with the benefit of the initial shots to guide them, the bolt-thrower
captains struck harder than before, almost every shot striking home
into timber or human flesh, and the Kushite sailors worked feverishly
to extinguish the fires that threatened to engulf their vessels if not
dealt with immediately. Despite their efforts, a handful of the enemy
fleet were already ablaze, their crews steering for the banks on
either side or simply abandoning ship and swimming for their lives to
the closest vessels.
‘Those poor bastards! They’re being sacrificed to no purpose!’
Cotta shook his head in horror as the swimmers were beset by
ravening crocodiles, heedless of the oncoming ships in their
eagerness to take such helpless prey, but Scaurus pointed down at
the oncoming fleet with an urgent shout.
‘No, they’re not! That’s why they’re making this attack!’ On the
decks of the ships not yet affected by the bombardment from the
fortress’s defences, men were pulling canvas covers away from
machinery that had been concealed beneath their drab colours to
blend with the vessels’ lines, crews hurrying to man and bring them
to bear on their intended target. ‘It’s not an assault, they have a
different intention!’
Marcus stared out over the parapet at the advancing fleet,
watching as the enemy bolt-thrower crews aimed their weapons up
at the fortress towering over them.
‘But what can they hope—’
At the roared command of whoever was commanding the fleet, the
Kushites launched their first shots, aiming not for the defenders atop
the walls, but at a point slightly below them. Each missile trailed a
line of smoke, the Kushites having clearly decided to use the same
tactics that were being exercised against them. Marcus leaned over
the wall’s edge to look at the bolts’ point of impact, and, as the
missiles impacted on the stone around the water hoist in short-lived
puffs of flame, the realisation of what the Kushites’ plan was came to
him.
‘They’re trying to set a fire and burn out the hoist!’
Throwing himself at the nearest set of stone steps down into the
street below, he sprinted for the entrance to the chamber in which
the hoist mechanism was mounted, with Abasi and Cotta at his
heels.
‘You men!’ A work party of a dozen legionaries, sweating profusely
as they carried jars of grain from the nearest store to one of the
bakeries that had been set up around the fortress, goggled at the
sight of their senior centurion sprinting towards them. ‘Put those jars
down and follow me!’
Bursting through the door into the airy, open-fronted chamber, the
centurions saw the direct evidence of what it was that the Kushite
naval attack was intended to achieve. Two bolts from the first salvo
had found their mark, and burning oil had sprayed across the
wooden frame of the winch gear. Stepping cautiously forward while
Abasi and Cotta lunged for the jars of water fortuitously positioned to
provide refreshment for the hoist crew, Marcus risked a glance over
its edge to confirm what he expected would be the case. More of the
warships were coming into bolt range, labouring up the river with
their oarsmen working as hard as they could, and on the decks he
could see jars of oil alongside the bolt throwers. He pointed to the
bucket, perched neatly at the platform’s edge, shouting a warning to
Abasi.
‘If they burn the winch out we’ll lose the bucket into the river!’
Abasi flicked a glance at the massive bronze bucket.
‘And it’s too heavy to move! You’ – he pointed at the closest of the
legionaries – ‘go and tell Centurion Petosorapis to bring his century
here, now, and to bring all the water jars they can find! The rest of
you, get ready to beat out the flames if they score any more hits!’
The soldiers did as they were bidden, advancing into the chamber
cautiously just as the second salvo of bolts started snapping off the
stonework around the hoist room’s open side, the first to sail cleanly
through the wooden frame hammering into the cable drum and
spraying it with flecks of burning oil, the second hitting the man who
had reached up to suffocate the smouldering spots on the tightly
coiled rope. Already dying, he shrieked inhumanly with the last
breath in his body as the greasy tunic he was wearing ignited with a
crackle, staggering away from the hoist as his body became a short-
lived human torch, then fell to the stone floor and writhed with the
agony of his seared skin, the chamber filling with the stink of his
burnt hair. Cotta drew his sword and stepped forward, looking down
at the dying man for a moment to pick the right spot to strike before
stepping in and expertly delivering the mercy stroke.
Marcus looked down again, grimacing as a bolt arched down from
the walls and, by some fluke of air and wind, flew cleanly into the pot
of oil on the deck of a ship in the middle of the formation, igniting its
contents even as it flung them across the rowing benches behind the
bow-mounted bolt thrower. The ship was ablaze in an instant,
burning men leaping over its sides in all directions as it veered off
course and sailed into its neighbour with the last of its momentum,
setting light to its timbers in turn. Both vessels, blazing furiously and
without any means of propulsion, drifted slowly back down the river
and into the heart of the enemy formation, herding the ships
following them to left and right to avoid their deadly embrace.
Presented with such inviting targets, ships packed so tightly on either
side of the burning wrecks that it was almost impossible for their
shots to miss, the crews on the wall above whooped at the
destruction they were wreaking on the Kushite fleet. Their bolts
slammed down into the enemy fleet’s packed mass, raining
unforgiving fire into the chaos of the disordered ships beneath them.
Peto arrived at a dead run, leading dozens of his men into the
stone chamber, pairs of men carrying heavy jars of water between
them, and Cotta strolled to join Marcus with a look of grim
satisfaction, flicking the dead legionary’s blood from his sword and
sheathing the blade.
‘Looks like we’ve weathered this one, doesn’t it? Might be best not
to stare out at them like a pair of fools though. It’s not the bolt with
my name on it that worries me, it’s the one marked “to whom it might
concern”, right?’
 Marcus smiled at the old joke, nodding his agreement as he turned
and walked away from the chamber’s open end with his friend and
mentor a step behind him. And in the days that followed, as he
replayed the scene a thousand times in his mind’s eye, each time
questioning what he could have done differently to prevent what
happened next, he never once managed to see a way in which the
terrible fluke could have been avoided. Hearing a sonorous clang,
followed instantly by a loud grunt, he was in the act of turning to look
back at Cotta when the veteran fell heavily against him, almost
bearing him to the ground. Barely managing to hold the other man’s
weight up, he twisted and looked down to his friend’s eyes to find
them tight with pain and confusion.
‘What …’
Putting an arm around the veteran’s waist, something hard poked
into his skin, and he turned the older man over onto his side as he
lowered his body to the floor. The tail of a bolt was protruding from
his scale armour, barely six inches of its length visible, with the
remainder buried in his friend’s body.
‘What … is it?’
The lie came shockingly easily, an instinctive untruth to protect his
oldest friend from the dreadful reality of what it was that had just
happened to him.
‘Nothing too bad. You just need to rest for a moment.’
Cotta looked up at him, snapping back into lucidity, the realisation
that he was dying in his eyes. Struggling for breath, he shook his
head in disbelief at the suddenness with which he had been felled.
‘Bullshit … I always knew … you’d end up … being the death … of
me.’ He smiled into Marcus’s consternation, his face deathly pale,
his eyes starting to lose their momentary focus. ‘And I never …
regretted my choice … to follow you.’
Abasi loomed over the two men with Peto at his shoulder, shaking
his head in dismay at the veteran’s wound.
‘You go to meet your gods, Centurion, and your ancestors. Greet
them with pride, for you have fought well. No man could ever say
you wanted for courage, could they, Centurion Cotta of the Third
Legion Gallica?’
 Cotta grimaced up at him as a wave of pain shook his body.
‘You … knew?’
The Aegyptian nodded, his gaze hardening.
‘Of course I knew. Did you think that just because we stopped
sending men after you in Rome we gave up all interest in you? Your
association with this man’ – he gestured to Marcus – ‘has long been
known to the men who have dragged this legion back from the brink
of disaster and ridicule that it sank to after you killed our emperor.
And you confirmed our knowledge with your careless use of words
that my centurion here recognised as having been used by our
emperor’s murderer, even a decade later. Not to mention a
narrowing of the eyes whenever my men mention your old legion in
their marching songs.’
‘And … yet …’
‘I didn’t call you out? Or have you knifed in the back? This is the
best legion in the army, Cotta, faithful to the emperor unto death, and
we had a task to perform. Had you lived to see it completed, then
you and I would have had a day of reckoning, I expect.’
Cotta wheezed breathlessly, and after a moment Marcus realised
that he was laughing.
‘I’ve … cheated … you … of … your …’ he coughed explosively,
blood spattering the stone floor in front of him, ‘… revenge.’
‘Perhaps.’ The big man nodded dourly. ‘Or perhaps I have simply
lost a man with whom I might yet have declared friendship. Go well
into the underworld, Cotta, and hold your head up when your
ancestors look you in the face.’
He touched Marcus on the shoulder fleetingly and then turned
away. Cotta coughed again, more convulsively, then stiffened in
agony at the pain. He fought to raise his body to stare out of the
chamber’s open end.
‘Dying …’
Marcus lifted his friend to let him see over the platform’s edge, and
Peto knelt on one knee beside him, his right hand moving from
forehead to chest, then touched his left and right shoulders in turn.
‘Go to God, friend, and tell of the good you did in this life. May you
be admitted to heaven, to live among the righteous, where you
belong.
‘Fat … fucking … chance …’ The dying centurion coughed again,
spattering his armoured chest with blood. ‘Should … have …
realised … you … were … one … of … them …’ He convulsed, a
rivulet of blood running down his chin. ‘The … Greek’s … new …
boots …’
Turning his head, he looked at Marcus with unfocused eyes that
were almost empty of any sign of life, his last words little more than a
hiss of dying breath.
‘Wasn’t … just … Flamma … loved … you … like … a …’
The last word was little more than a wheezed exhalation of his
final, blood-scented breath.
‘Son.’

‘How did he die, Valerius Aquila?’

The scribe waited expectantly, the tip of his stylus poised over the
pristine layer of the smooth, soft wax of a fresh tablet. Marcus shook
his head tiredly, staring out over the rampart at the remnants of the
Kushite fleet straggling away downriver towards their moorings.
‘Pointlessly.’
Ptolemy frowned, the writing instrument unmoving.
‘Surely you must realise that I cannot write that word in an official
record of this campaign, Centurion. You are as aware as I am that
the Roman public will expect such a loss to be …’
His momentary pause to select the right adjective was all the time
a grim-faced Dubnus needed to pounce.
‘Heroic? No, a noble sacrifice, is that better? Why don’t you write
that our friend’s death was a fine example of the Roman fighting man
at his best, uncaring of the risks when the empire’s pride is at stake.’
‘That’s inspired, Centurion, exactly …’
The Aegyptian’s praise dried up as he looked up from the tablet’s
wax and realised that the Briton’s stare was unmistakably hostile.
‘Our friend died defending a meaningless pile of stone that we will
abandon to the enemy the moment it has served its purpose.’
Marcus shook his head in renewed dismay. ‘He was killed by the
grossest of flukes, and when the battle was already won, by a bolt
that struck the bronze water bucket and was directed into his back,
where it penetrated his armour and lodged in his liver. My oldest
surviving friend died for no purpose, and without ever seeing the
means of his death.’
Ptolemy tipped his head to one side in thought, the birdlike pose
that under other circumstances would have been the usual source of
amusement to the friends.
‘I see. Valiant to the last, he was felled by a last despairing shot
from the enemy fleet that most cruelly rebounded from a metal
bucket and dealt him a mortal wound. Expiring, his last words were
…?’
Marcus looked up at him, dead-eyed.
‘Write that he was proud to die for the empire. And then get out of
my sight until my urge to put you over the wall for the crocodiles to
feast on has abated.’
Recognising the barely restrained anger in his friend’s clenched
fists and slitted eyes, Dubnus took the protesting scribe by the arm
with a grip that made the Aegyptian wince and forcibly led him away,
explaining the facts of Marcus’s relationship with his dead friend in a
hissed whisper.
‘The two of you were very close?’ The Roman turned to find
Demetrius behind him. ‘I have no desire to be put over the wall and
will happily withdraw if the subject is too painful.’
‘I can speak of it. Indeed I have learned that discussing those we
have lost helps to manage the pain of their loss. That, and other less
conventional remedies.’ He turned away from the view, turning his
back on the straggling Kushite ships drifting back downriver. ‘I met
Cotta when I was only a boy. He had performed bodyguarding
services for my family, and my father tasked him and a champion
gladiator to teach me the skills of the arena and the legion. The
gladiator gave me his guile and trickery, taught me to fight with two
swords and coached my natural speed by investing it with the
memory of a hundred thousand repetitions.’
He fell silent, and after a moment the Christian prompted him with
a gentle question.
‘And our friend Cotta?’
 ‘Cotta … Cotta gave me something else. Where the gladiator was
encouraging, he was challenging. When I needed to have the grim
facts of life pointed out to me, he was the one to do so, like any good
centurion would. They were playing roles, of course, I see that now,
but at the time I hated him with a disgust as strong as any recruit for
his first centurion. But he saved my life.’
Demetrius stayed silent, allowing the younger man to continue in
his own time.
‘When my family was murdered by the emperor’s thugs, my father
had the foresight to send me away to Britannia, temporarily out of
their reach. But that respite would have been of no consequence had
he not sent me to a friend, a senior officer in the province’s army.
And even that would have been of little avail if I had not got lucky on
the road and met a man just like Cotta, who took me to an auxiliary
cohort on the northern frontier and found me a place as a centurion.’
‘You entered the empire’s service as an officer?’ Demetrius pursed
his lips in something between surprise and disbelief. ‘That must have
been … challenging?’
‘Every bit as challenging as you can imagine. But I survived it, with
the help of my friend over there …’ He nodded at Dubnus, who was,
from the look of his stance, looming over the Aegyptian in a manner
best described as overtly intimidatory, busy explaining the facts of
military life and death to a dumbstruck Ptolemy. ‘And all those years
of Cotta’s conditioning to help me. I was a soldier before I ever
joined the First Tungrian Cohort, I just didn’t know it.’
The Christian nodded his understanding.
‘There is something more, I suspect?’ Marcus looked at him
questioningly. ‘He was your last link with your previous life. The last
man to have shared the time before your family’s murder.’
‘He was.’
Marcus fell silent again, and after a moment Demetrius sighed.
‘This will not comfort you now, Centurion, but I would have you
know it, and believe it, for the peace it will bring you. Your friend, if
he was a good man, will have ascended to heaven to join Our Lord
Jesus and his father, the almighty God of all that ever was and all
that ever will be.’ He raised a hand to forestall any response. ‘I say
this not as any sort of effort to take advantage of your grief to
attempt a conversion to my religion. That will come in its own time,
when the inevitable truth of my beliefs become your truth. I simply
offer you that unchallengeable fact to give you whatever comfort you
might take from it.’
The Roman shook his head with a slow, sad smile.
‘I hope you’re right, although I sincerely doubt it. But if you are, it is
to be hoped that your god has a sense of humour. That, and a
tolerance for bad language.’
 11

‘It seems that the Kushite general actually meant what he said.’
Demetrius was standing alongside Marcus, who had the second
watch of the night, both men staring out over the dark expanse of the
eastern plain. In the ten days that had followed since the abortive
attempt to deny the defenders the use of their water hoist, no further
effort had been expended on capturing the fortress. An uneasy truce
of sorts had settled over the two armies, one camped like a powerful
but frustrated beast, while the other sat inside impregnable walls and
husbanded its slowly shrinking supplies.
‘That they’ll look to starve us out?’ The Roman’s tone reflected his
uncertainty that such a plan would be the Kushite’s primary course of
action. ‘Possibly. Although I can’t shake off the feeling that there’s
more to him, more to that army as a whole, than just taking the most
pragmatic approach.’
The Greek nodded his agreement.
‘Indeed. After all, what king wants to sit idle for months, starving
his enemy into submission, when some bright boy might come up
with a clever way to achieve the same result without all the waiting
around? Kingdoms, it seems to me, are like beautiful wives. You do
well not to leave them unattended for months at a time.’ He grinned
at Marcus in the light of the torches that were illuminating the wall’s
broad fighting platform. ‘No king wants to leave his kingdom
unguarded for as long as this siege will take, when there are plenty
of other threats to his rule, any of which might boil over like an
unwatched pot if ignored for long enough.’
The Roman shook his head in mock admonishment.
‘You’re very free with your metaphors tonight, Christian. Is that
what passes for wisdom in your church, that a woman needs to be
shepherded to keep her safe from being led astray?’
Demetrius opened his hands as if to protest, but was interrupted
by a breathless interjection from behind the two men.
‘Centurion, there’s something happening down on the river!’
Marcus turned away from the view across the silent plain to find a
soldier standing rigidly to attention. ‘Centurion Dubnus sent me to
get you!’
He followed the man down the steps and into the fortress streets
below, passing the empty temple which was now a legion century’s
billet like most other buildings in Premnis, mounting the steps on the
other side to find Dubnus leaning out over the parapet with his head
cocked to one side.
‘I’m not entirely sure that wall was built with your sort of weight in
mind?’
‘Quiet!’ The big man ignored his friend’s jibe, resuming his position
and listening intently to the dark river below. ‘There’s something
down there. You …’ He waved a hand at the waiting soldier. ‘Your
fidgeting is putting me off, now fuck off and get Abasi!’
Marcus leaned out over the wall and listened for a long moment in
total silence.
‘I can’t—’
Something moved on the water below them, the river’s black
ribbon nothing more than a complete absence of light, the sound
somehow at odds with the natural susurration of wind and water.
‘There!’ Dubnus nudged him with an elbow. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Yes.’ The Roman stepped back, thinking fast. ‘There’s something
down there, all right. Perhaps a small boat with muffled oars. But
what can they hope to achieve when there’s two hundred feet of
almost sheer cliff to climb and a legion waiting for them at the top?’
Abasi appeared at his side, as immaculately turned out as ever,
and not for the first time Marcus found himself wondering if the man
slept in his uniform and equipment.
‘This man said you wanted me. What is it, Centurions?’
‘Movement on the river, First Spear. Probably a small boat,
possibly a covert approach of some kind. Although to what end isn’t
clear.’
 ‘Or it could just be a crocodile.’
‘That too is possible.’
‘But we’d be fools to ignore it, whatever it is, wouldn’t we?’
Marcus nodded.
‘I believe we would.’
‘So, what do you propose we do? Dropping torches would work
well enough to illuminate the ground on the other side of the fortress,
but all we can achieve on this side is to extinguish the torch before it
has the chance to show us anything, either from the drop itself or
when it falls into the river.’
‘A pair of men can ride down to the riverside, if we use the water
bucket.’
The big Aegyptian stared at him for a moment.
‘You propose to have yourself lowered down, to the river, in a
bucket made from the melted-down statue of the river goddess? Do
you have some sort of urge to defy the gods as many times as it
takes to get yourself killed?’
Marcus met his eye and held the gaze, shaking his head slowly.
‘You’re accusing me of having a death wish, First Spear. Whereas
the truth is that I am concerned with little more than performing my
role to the best of my abilities. Whether or not that results in my
death is of supreme disinterest to me. Sir.’
Abasi pursed his lips, clearly fighting to prevent himself from
laughing.
‘It’s an unusual situation, for a man who has spent all his life using
the title “sir” as a form of admonishment, to find himself having the
same trick pulled on him, and, to make it worse, by a man who is in
many ways his superior in life.’ He took a step closer, standing so
close to the Roman that Marcus could smell the onion on his breath.
‘And in the relative privacy of here and now, with only your friends to
bear witness to such a remarkable act, I can overlook it. Even be
amused by it. But I assume that you do not plan to repeat insolence
of such a breathtaking nature in front of the more impressionable of
our colleagues?’
Marcus nodded.
 ‘Your assumption is a safe one to make, First Spear. And forgive
me, my urge to fight had the better of me.’
The Aegyptian nodded, patting his shoulder.
‘A good thing, in a soldier, but officers need to understand that
their role is to command, to direct, and only in the last moments to
draw their sword and seek the enemy’s blood. So let us pick a
suitable soldier and—’
‘With respect, First Spear?’
Abasi raised an eyebrow at the prospect of a further difference of
opinion.
‘If it is with respect, Centurion, you may speak.’
‘I agree with all you say.’ Dubnus stifled a laugh, still staring out
over the river’s black expanse. ‘Even if, as my comrade is attempting
to communicate, I have been guilty of throwing myself into the
enemy on more than one occasion. But my point is a different one, if
I might make it?’
‘Go on. Make it quick.’
‘We need the very best soldier available to do the thing I propose.
The best swordsman, the best intelligence. Whatever it is the enemy
are doing down there may be a matter of subtlety, and not easily
discerned. And if our soldier’s presence is detected, then whoever
he is will need to be gifted with his weapons to survive. And with
respect, First Spear, I believe I match both criteria more closely than
any other man under your command. And so I submit myself for the
task, knowing that I am our best chance of its success.’
The Aegyptian shook his head in disgust.
‘Very clever, Centurion. Abandoning emotion and substituting logic
was always likely to succeed. As it has. Very well, if you’re set on
this, we should get it underway before I change your mind for you.’
Demetrius took a step forward, coming to a slightly incongruous
attention.
‘And, with equal respect, First Spear …?’
‘What do you want, Christian?’
Demetrius bowed.
‘I cannot salute you, as I am no longer a centurion. But had you
seen me when I was a centurion, you would have seen a kindred
spirit, of sorts. But where you are as straight as a fifty-mile road, I
was more … complex. And not, you can be assured, a good man.
Which is why I seek every opportunity to restore my sense of self-
worth when it presents itself.’
‘And you want to go with him? What use would an old man like
you be?’
The Greek grinned.
‘More use than you might imagine, First Spear. I was death
incarnate, when I wore the crest. I killed without hesitation, without
remorse, and with consummate skill. My last act in uniform was to kill
six men, and in the time you might take to properly discipline a
slovenly soldier. And trust me, I still have all that deadliness bottled
up inside me, ready for the day that I need it.’
‘Which ignores the fact we already have a man to ride the bucket
down to the river, however foolhardy that might seem.’
‘One man, First Spear, is no men, if that one man can be
approached from two directions. My brother-in-arms here will need a
man to stand back to back with him, if he is to return from this task
he has chosen to undertake.’
Abasi looked at the two men with the expression of a man
discovering himself to be the victim of a confidence trick.
‘Did you two discuss this before my arrival?’
‘No, First Spear.’ Demetrius shook his head in denial. ‘Centurion
Corvus had no expectation of my urge to accompany him down to
the river. And neither did I, until a moment ago. But you know that
what I am saying is logical. I am nobody, just a religious oddity, and I
am volunteering to sell my life dearly if it will enable the Centurion to
escape with his own, should circumstances turn against us down
there. And I do not believe that it is my turn to die. Not yet, and not
here.’

‘You’re ready?’
Abasi looked dubiously across four feet of empty air at the two
men, grimacing at the way the massive bronze bucket was rocking
slowly from side to side from their exertions in climbing into it.
 ‘We’re ready, First Spear. And I for one am happy simply to have
got into this container without falling to my death. Nothing can match
that for terror, not even if the entire Kushite army is waiting for us at
the bottom!’
Marcus grinned at his comrade’s dour tone, looking around to
meet his eye and seeing the same light of determination that had
animated the Christian in the moments before their attack on the
riverbank scouts. Pressed back to back into the water bucket’s close
confines, the two men had already undergone the precarious
process of inching out across a stout plank secured to the platform
by heavy iron bolts and climbing into its smooth-sided confinement
while poised over a two-hundred-foot drop. Marcus’s heart had
pounded as he had grasped the smooth metal rim with all his
strength and clambered over it into the relative safety of its interior,
knowing that the gently sloping rock face below would tear a falling
man to shreds before dumping him into the crocodile-infested river,
at best more dead than alive. Abasi shrugged, uninterested in the
Greek’s humour, holding up the signal cord that would play out
between his fingers and be their only means of communicating with
the winch house other than, in extremis, shouting at the top of their
voices.
‘Very well. Hoist crew, lower away.’
With the ratchet mechanism disengaged the bucket started to fall,
its descent only controlled by the strength of the dozen soldiers
allowing the winch capstan to turn at no more than a slow walking
pace. The softly illuminated winch house seemed to climb away from
the two men, as the hoist lowered them smoothly through the first
dozen feet before the bucket contacted the wooden channel that had
been fitted to the rock face, to allow it to progress smoothly down to
the water. As the bucket’s base touched the wood, a soft scraping
noise that Marcus had little doubt would be audible from the river
began, an unmistakable signal to anyone below that the bucket was
being lowered.
‘They’ll know we’re coming.’
Demetrius turned and spoke into his ear to be heard over the
continuous scraping of metal on wood.
 ‘So much the better. Anyone who would seek to disrupt my
mission to bring the good news to these benighted barbarians needs
to learn that I am ready to meet their challenge with sword and
flame.’
As they continued to descend, the riverbank began to resolve itself
into a faintly visible silhouette against the stars, and Marcus stiffened
as he caught sight of a familiar outline.
‘Look! Is that a ship?’
Demetrius craned his neck to look in the direction that Marcus was
staring in.
‘Hard to say. Let’s stop the bucket and take a proper look?’
Marcus tugged on the signal cord, and after a moment’s delay the
descent abruptly halted. In the sudden silence the river’s gentle
sounds of lapping water were all that could be heard, and after a
moment Marcus shook his head in frustration.
‘I can’t hear anything, and I can no longer see what I thought I had
seen.’
‘Nor can I.’ Demetrius blew out a long breath. ‘Let us proceed, but
more slowly.’
The Roman tugged three times, the signal to recommence
lowering but at one third of the speed, which in turn lowered the
volume of the bucket’s friction against its wooden channel
somewhat, but still left the two men effectively deaf. As they
descended towards the river, Marcus stared intently at the spot
where he thought he had discerned the shape of a boat against the
river’s dark surface.
‘There!’
Unmistakably triangular in shape, defined against the backdrop of
stars, the mainsail of a river boat was moving slowly downriver.
‘It might just be a trader, looking to pass the fortress in the safety
of the darkness.’
The Roman conceded the possibility with a terse grunt.
‘Or it might be a Kushite naval vessel.’
Marcus looked down, realising that the narrow path along the
riverbank, and the hole that had been dug to allow the bucket to drop
cleanly into the water, were coming up below them.
 ‘We need to stop!’
Tugging the cord again, the two men scrutinised the barely visible
ground a dozen feet below them, neither man finding anything to
give any cause for concern. Marcus shook his head in bafflement.
‘Nothing, and nobody to be seen. Perhaps this is all just a little
paranoid, after all.’
Demetrius shrugged.
‘Your instinct was that there was something to investigate, and I
say we go with your instinct. Let us continue to the ground and see
what there is to be seen.’
Signalling for a very slow rate of descent with another three tugs of
the cord, and a further single pull as the bucket’s base touched the
water, the two men used the steps built into the bucket’s interior wall
to propel themselves over the rim and onto solid ground. Marcus let
go of the cord and left it dangling inside the bucket, examining the
ground around him in the starlight for any sign of interference.
‘There are bootprints!’
He skirted the bucket’s bulk to join Demetrius, dropping to one
knee to explore the ground the Greek was indicating with his
fingertips.
‘These marks are wet. Whoever made them has been in the river.
Either that or …’
Demetrius reached out a hand to stroke the ground at their feet.
‘Or working with mud!’ He pulled at whatever it was that he had
found, unearthing a length of rope the thickness of his wrist that had
been hidden from view under a thick coating of river mud. ‘I see their
plan!’ He pulled at the rope, dragging more of it from the closely
packed mud that had been used to conceal it. ‘They have laid a
noose around the bucket hole, and do you see this …?’ He raised a
knot that had been allowed to fall into the water. ‘It is a slipknot. They
planned to allow the bucket into the water and then to drag this trap
tight, closing the noose around the hoisting rope above the bucket.
And this rope is strong enough, with a big enough team of beasts, to
pull the winding gear out of the hoist room!’
Marcus set down his sword and drew the dagger from his belt.
‘In which case …’
 He cut through the rope with a few swift sawing strokes of the
short blade, tossing the severed noose into the river to remove the
threat.
‘And now let us return to the fortress and inform—’
With a sudden patter of feet on the path’s hard-packed earth, there
were soldiers approaching them on both sides, sprinting down the
bank towards the two men, their previous stealth completely
abandoned. Marcus sheathed the dagger and took up his sword,
Demetrius shouting a command that made him lunge for the
dangling cord.
‘Send the bucket back! I will hold them off!’
The Roman tugged frantically at the cord half a dozen times and
then stepped back as the bucket ascended swiftly into the darkness,
setting himself to face the oncoming enemy infiltrators even as he
drew breath to roar a warning up at the men above.
‘They were trying to capture the bucket with a rope noose! Check
the ground around the hole before you—’
A spear-armed man leapt at him out of the darkness, a barely
discernible shadow whose black skin was matched by the colour of
his tunic, and Marcus met him face to face, turning his spear’s point
aside with the spatha’s long blade and then gutting him with the
gladius. He threw the dying man into the water with a splash that he
knew would excite the attentions of the crocodiles that routinely
basked on the far bank, setting himself to deal with the attackers
who would inevitably follow. Demetrius added his voice to the
warning, his parade-ground roar rising over the unintelligible shouts
and imprecations of the men driving their assailants forward.
‘They made a noose for the bucket! Don’t lower it again until you
know th—’
A wave of men overwhelmed the Greek, pushing him face down
into the mud even as he put his sword through his first attacker’s
throat, leaving Marcus alone against attackers approaching him from
both sides, men hurdling the bucket hole to close inexorably on the
spot where he waited, his bloodied swords raised in warning. An
attacker came at him from the left, staggering away with a yelp of
pain as the Roman punished his advance with a swift thrust of his
gladius into his thigh, but the opening was all the time that the men
on his other side needed to strike. Something hit his helmeted head
hard enough to make his ears ring, and as he turned, inexorably
slowly, it seemed, he was punched to the ground by a powerful blow
and then smothered by bodies as both of his swords were stripped
from hands numbed by the blow. In the indistinct light a silhouette
loomed over him, a fist raised, and when the blow fell he saw no
more.

‘Wake up, Roman!’

Marcus barely registered the sting of the slaps that were being
administered to his inner thighs, although a part of him knew that the
pain being inflicted on him was being reduced by his weak grip on
consciousness rather than any restraint on the part of whoever was
striking him. His recollection of the period since he had been felled
by the Kushite soldiers was tenuous at best, flashes of memory in
which he had been carried onto a boat and dropped on its wooden
deck with a sword at his throat, then slung over the back of a horse,
powerless to move such had been the completeness of his
incapacitation. An intense point of discomfort replaced the ache from
the blows, the prick of an iron blade’s point against the root of his
phallus.
‘You are awake, now get to your feet or I will use this knife to carve
off your manhood and feed it to my hunting dogs!’
Forcing his eyes open, Marcus found himself face to face with a
black-skinned man whose shaved head was covered by a gleaming
gold helmet, his face vaguely familiar, and it took a moment’s mental
effort for him to realise that it was Tantamani, the Kushite general
who had approached Premnis’s walls after the abortive assault on
the fortress. His face was contorted in disgust at some odour the
Roman could not smell as he stepped back, gesturing insistently with
the dagger’s blade. Getting to his feet from the canvas floor of a tent,
its interior barely visible in the scant light that was penetrating its
thick walls, Marcus looked around him to find soldiers posted on all
four sides, their ceremonial swords drawn and gleaming palely in the
half-light. Standing, the soldier sheathed his dagger and barked an
order over his shoulder. A pair of what appeared to be slaves, as
much from their fearful demeanour as the speed with which they
obeyed his command, came forward with a pail of water and a towel
of sorts, and their master pointed at them.
‘You have soiled yourself. Use the water to clean yourself, then
wash your tunic.’
He watched impassively as the Roman did as he was bidden,
waiting until Marcus had donned the damp tunic before speaking
again.
‘You are a prisoner of the kingdom of Meroë. You were taken on
the battlefield by our men, caught in the act of an attempt to prevent
us from denying the fortress of Premnis access to the river’s water.
An attempt that failed. Your fortress is without water now and will
soon fall.’
He fell silent and stared intently at Marcus, waiting to see how the
Roman would react, but Marcus simply shook his head in response,
his voice still weak from the effects of the blow that had stunned him.
‘I don’t think so. The last time I saw that bucket it was vanishing up
into the darkness. And there’s no way they’ll have let it back down
without checking for your clever little traps first.’
The soldier stared at him impassively.
‘I see that you are not to be deceived. But that might end up being
your final downfall.’ The Kushite shook his head dismissively. ‘After
all, if I cannot fool you into telling me what I need to know, I might as
well have your throat cut, here and now.’
Marcus stared back at him, refusing to be the first man to break
eye contact.
‘You will do whatever you feel is necessary, I would imagine, given
your position.’
‘I will. As a general of Meroë and the master of my ruler’s army. It
was I who masterminded the strategy that took your port of Berenike,
and I will deal with this small inconvenience in whatever way
produces the fastest results.’
The Roman shrugged.
‘If you are the master of strategy for this army, then it was also you
who allowed us to take Premnis, deceiving you into marching north
while we slid past you to the south, up the bank of the river Nilus.
And as for strategy, I don’t believe there was much tactical genius
needed to take the port, was there? One five-hundred-man cohort
was all you faced, a force so small as to represent nothing more than
a minor obstacle to your advance, a reflection of Rome’s expectation
of peace with an old ally. As generals go, you’re hardly in the same
league as Alexander, are you?’
The Kushite’s eyes narrowed at the insult.
‘And you are hardly in any position …’ He paused, and then smiled
wryly. ‘Ah. Yes, I see your game. You seek to provoke me into killing
you, here and now, because you fear torture.’
Marcus shook his head gingerly.
‘No. You mistake disinterest for bravado. Kill me now, kill me later,
spare my life … it matters little enough.’
‘You would have me take you for a fatalist?’
‘I would have you recognise me for what I am. A man whose life
has been dulled by the loss of one he loved above all others, and
whose interests in that life have been blunted accordingly. Kill me
now and send me to join her. I will not complain.’
The dark-skinned officer nodded thoughtfully.
‘Truly, a fatalist. Perhaps I will have more luck with your comrade,
before you are both submitted to imperial justice for your crimes
against Meroë.’
The Roman laughed tiredly.
‘I wish you the very best of luck with that one. If you think I’m a
fatalist, wait until you see how he responds to the choice of betraying
his comrades or being executed.’
After a long period of sitting on the uneven floor, prodded back into
an upright position every time he tried to lie down by one or other of
the spearmen surrounding him, what little light that was managing to
enter the tent through its walls and the slightly open door flap
dimmed to almost nothing, and was replaced by the meagre
illumination of a small lamp, carefully placed well out of the
prisoner’s reach. Eventually, as Marcus was nodding with his body’s
need for restorative sleep to repair the harm done to him during his
capture, the flap was opened and Demetrius thrust through it to fall
on his knees. Tantamani followed him through, pushing the Christian
into the circle of guards. His face was bruised, evidence of the
violence with which he had been overwhelmed the previous night,
but other than the marks of that initial beating, he bore no other signs
of having been brutalised.
‘You have told the truth in at least one matter, Roman. This man is
possessed of a death wish no less strong than your own. Indeed he
seems to embrace the idea of what he calls martyrdom.’
Demetrius rolled over onto his back with a groan.
‘An uneducated barbarian like yourself would not, of course, know
the meaning of the word.’ He ignored the Kushite’s scowl, continuing
in the same hectoring tone. ‘The word martyr, oh most esteemed
enemy, in my language, Greek – which is of course the language of
civilisation – means witness.’
Tantamani shrugged, turning away to examine the tent’s interior
with ostentatious care.
‘If you seek to infuriate me, you will have to try harder than that.
After all, it is not I that has allowed himself to become a captive,
forced to wash himself in front of unfriendly eyes.’
The Greek laughed, unable or perhaps unwilling to control his
amusement at their captor’s verbal tactics.
‘You think this is demeaning? You clearly wouldn’t last an hour in a
legion century! From the moment you join as a soldier, to the day
that you manage to climb far enough up that slippery pole to get a
crest and a tent to yourself, you wash your arse in front of your
mates. And even if they’ve sworn to fight to the death alongside you,
they’ll still take great joy in pointing out every tiny thing about you
that will make the rest of them laugh – and so you do the same to
them, of course. You lot watching me wash the dried piss off my skin
was about as troubling as you offering to give me a good tickle.’ He
shook his head in affected amusement. ‘So, to return to the subject
we’re discussing, to be a martyr is to bear witness to the one true
God, and in the act of giving one’s life for him, and suffering the
tribulations of that death for him, to shout belief in him to the world!’
The Kushite general raised a pitying eyebrow, shaking his head in
a way clearly intended to express sympathy.
 ‘Which would be noble, were your beliefs rooted in fact. But the
fact is that there is more than one god. A whole pantheon of gods,
and this we know to be true from the teaching that echoes down the
centuries from the days when Kush ruled as far north as the great
sea and into the lands that border it. My god, Amun, has ruled
supreme over the other deities since before the earliest days of
Kush, as Lord of the Thrones of the Two Lands, and it is he who
oversees the crowning of our kings at Jebel Barkal, the holy
mountain, where they are also laid to rest at the end of their lives, to
be watched over by Amun in the next life.’
‘A false god, who—’
Tantamani overrode Demetrius with contemptuous ease, his
booming voice filling the tent with his power.
‘The cult of my master Amun is the power that enables our kings
to rule! We priests appoint them, we counsel them, we tell them
when the time is right for war, or for peace! We manage their estates
and foundries, we teach the arts, writing, mathematics, architecture
and astronomy, sciences to rival any knowledge known to Rome!’
His tone softened to that of a teacher, saddened by his pupil’s lack of
understanding. ‘And yet, follower of your vaunted Christos, we
tolerate and even encourage the worship of many other gods. Under
Amun, creator of all that is and will ever be, are Geb, the god of the
earth, and Nut, the goddess of the skies; Isis, goddess of
motherhood; Osiris, god of the kings; Seth, the god of devastation;
and Ma’at, the goddess of order and righteousness. It is Ma’at’s laws
that govern them all, for she is the goddess of truth, and from her we
have learned our binding rules of law, morality, order and justice.
Which is more than can be said for your empire, if the stories we
hear from men who have travelled to the city of Alexandria are to be
trusted. And at least we do not worship dead men, unlike your
insistence that your emperors ascend to godhead when they die. It
might amuse you to know that the head of a statue of your so-called
god Augustus is buried under the temple steps in our city of Meroë,
so that every man who attends to worship walks upon him. A god,
indeed …’
 The Greek smiled knowingly at him, and in the moment before he
spoke, Marcus knew that the next words out of his mouth would
condemn them both to death without any hope of mercy.
‘Very clever. And yet, for all your pride, you are not the only people
who can use a statue for their own purposes. I have watched the
graven image of one of your false goddesses be broken down to
provide the metal with which our water bucket was forged. And I
rejoiced, priest, as I saw that graven image reduced to molten metal,
rejoiced at the destruction of something so unholy!’
Tantamani’s eyes narrowed in disbelief.
‘You lie! No man could be so foolish as to so despoil the statue of
a goddess!’
He turned to address Marcus with a look of barely controlled fury.
‘Is this true, Roman? And if so, what was your part in it?’
‘It is true. And while I had no direct part in it, neither did I try to
prevent it. I am a follower of Mithras, not the Christian god, so I
neither delighted in the act nor considered it a crime, but simply an
act of necessity.’
‘Necessity?’ The Kushite was incandescent in his anger, spittle
flying as he put a finger in Demetrius’s face. ‘You found it necessary
to destroy one of the most sacred objects in the kingdom? I will have
you flayed for that, your guts dropped out for you to contemplate in
the brief moment before you are pulled in two by horses and your
separate parts strewn across the desert for the vultures! From this
moment you are a dead man waiting in terror for his own demise! I
will see you executed, both of you!’
He turned to the door.
‘I will leave you now and give you the time to reflect on the means
by which you will die, alone and unlamented. I promise that you will
die screaming for mercy, and calling out the name of the goddess
you have insulted in a plea for forgiveness!’ He stopped at the tent’s
flap. ‘You wish to die, to be a witness to your god’s power? Your
request will be granted more fully than you could ever have hoped! I
say that when you die, as punishment for your usurpation of our
fortress of Premnis, it will be as a witness to his impotence, not any
illusory glory that you might ascribe to him. Think on that. And
prepare yourselves!’

‘There’s still no sign of the enemy making any use of our comrades?’
‘No, Tribune.’
Scaurus reached out and put a hand on Dubnus’s shoulder, the
Briton nodding his thanks for the gesture of consolation. He had
been standing on the wall since dawn, not even taking his eyes from
the enemy camp to accept the food and water brought to him by
Qadir, ignoring the burning heat of midday to keep his gaze fixed on
the place where he knew his friend must be, close to the cluster of
tents that had to be the Kushite king’s headquarters. With the sun
sinking towards the horizon, his attention was undiminished, his
stare as intent as it had been half a day before.
‘Well, that’s something, at least. If their king had intended using
them to encourage us to surrender, or just to exercise his frustration
at not having succeeded in his plot to remove our ability to take
water from the river, I expect he would have done so by now. And
doubtless he would have done so at a point just outside ballista
range.’
A pair of bolt throwers had been manned on either side of the
watching centurion, their crews waiting under canvas awnings for the
call to perform a task that would combine the granting of mercy with
the deaths of respected men.
‘You think they’ll attempt to use Marcus and the Christian as
hostages?’
Scaurus shook his head.
‘To what end? They must know there’s no way that we’ll be
convinced to surrender a position this strong for the sake of two
men. Especially given that one of them is a religious oddity whose
motives in having accompanied us here are somewhat questionable.
If I were the man commanding that army, to be brutally honest with
you, I wouldn’t have the first idea of what to do with them.’ He
glanced at the Briton, whose face was set in grim lines. ‘Once
they’ve finished trying to get information from them, that is.’
Dubnus grimaced.
 ‘And we both know that Marcus will never talk. While the Greek is
more likely to be goading them, in hope of getting himself killed in
some inventive way that’ll get his name into the records.’
‘Indeed.’
Both men looked out over the wall for a moment before the Briton
spoke again.
‘They’re going to kill them both, aren’t they?’
Scaurus sighed.
‘In all probability, yes, I expect that is what will result. They’re not
like us, you see? We have centuries of culture behind us, philosophy
that informs our morality, and standards of behaviour that apply
across the civilised world. But barbarians like these? They can only
be put in the same category as all the other peoples that ring the
empire, forever hating us for our wealth and success, and treating
each and every prisoner as an opportunity to express that frustration
in the basest of ways. By all means hope for your friend’s release,
Centurion, but harden your heart in readiness for his death. Because
to be frank with you, that is my expectation.’

‘Awake, barbarians!’
Marcus sat up, bleary-eyed, starting as the point of a spear
pricked the skin of his neck. He stared up at Tantamani’s looming
figure as the general tossed a pair of clean tunics on the canvas floor
in front of the two prisoners.
‘If I wasn’t awake before, you can be sure that I am now. Has the
time for our execution arrived? Surely a swift and clean death would
be the better option for a civilised people such as you claim to be,
but if you’re handing out fresh garments, I can only imagine that
there’s an executioner waiting somewhere nearby.’
The Kushite shook his head.
‘No, Roman. Once again your prejudices have the better of
whatever reason you might once have possessed.’
‘Perhaps it’s been beaten out of me.’
Tantamani laughed.
‘I like you, for the fact that you retain a sense of humour even
under such trying circumstances. And no, even though I take your
comrade’s act of sacrilege as needing to be expunged with his own
blood, the time for death is not yet upon you. I have been
commanded to bring you before the ruler of Meroë, who wishes to
lay eyes on men so ungodly in the hope of learning more about your
people, and I am in all things the servant of the throne. So put on
your clean clothing and ready yourself to meet with the most
important person in both our worlds. But heed my warning, both of
you …’
He slid a long blade from his belt, raising it for them both to see
clearly in the tent’s dimly lit interior.
‘You will show the appropriate respect, no matter what occurs. You
will keep your eyes on the floor at all times. You may not look upon
the regal presence, and you may not speak, either. And be in no
doubt …’ he stepped forward, putting the knife within a foot of
Marcus’s face, the shuffling of booted feet telling the Roman that his
escorts were ready to strike with their spears at any sign of
resistance, ‘I will carve Amun’s name on the man who dares to cross
me in this! Now wash yourselves, and dress, and do it quickly! It
does not suit the ruler of all Meroë to be kept waiting!’
Washed and clad in the clean tunics, which to Marcus smelt faintly
of incense, they were shepherded through the camp under the
watching eyes of the soldiers that they passed, some hostile, some
merely curious, Tantamani explaining their different reactions as he
walked close behind them with a hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘To some of these men you are little more than an oddity, paler of
skin than anyone most of them have ever seen. To others you
represent the death or maiming of their comrades. Were I to turn you
loose among them, that would be your execution right there. Would
that suit you, follower of the Christos, or did you have something
more memorable in mind than being torn to ribbons by a pack of
baying infantrymen?’
Demetrius wisely chose not to respond, and after another hundred
paces, following a weaving path clearly intended to disorient them,
the two men were admitted to a magnificent tent whose wooden floor
was perfectly flat, the large open space brightly lit by dozens of
lamps, and whose canvas was masked with fine materials. At one
end of the tent was a dais with a golden throne placed upon it, a
semi-circle of statues gathered behind it. The same scent of incense
hung in the air, and, noticing Marcus inhaling the air deeply,
Tantamani nodded his recognition of the Roman’s reaction to the
heady perfume.
‘You are in the presence of Amun and all his family. The incense
burns here all day, to honour and thank him for holding his protective
arms over the kingdom. Now, stand here, look at the floor and do not
speak, under any circumstances, without my permission. You have
been warned. Now cast your eyes to the floor in readiness for the
presence of the Kandake!’
Marcus frowned in surprise at the title.
‘Kandake?’
His only answer was a fierce whisper, delivered so close to his ear
that he felt the Kushite general’s hot breath on his neck.
‘Silence!’
Absolute quiet fell, filled a moment later by the measured footfalls
of someone approaching the two men across the tent’s wooden floor,
the click of metal-capped heels on wood growing louder until, even
with his eyes averted, Marcus saw a pair of polished boots come into
view. The feet they contained were evidently small, their leatherwork
intricately chased and decorated with gold inlays, while a pair of
equally ornate scabbards hung beside their wearer’s richly woven
leggings.
‘These are the men who were captured by the river during your
latest abortive attempt to cut off their water supply, Tantamani?
Dangerous barbarians who can only be presented for inspection with
sharp iron at their necks?’
The voice was hard enough to belong to a king, a ruler whose
word was respected as that of the gods themselves, but its tone was
lighter than a man’s, with a hint of amusement in its tone.
‘They are, my Kandake!’
‘They don’t look like warriors. One of them is old enough to be my
father, the other somewhat lacking in any sign of any danger.’
‘True, my Kandake, and yet between them they killed three of our
men before we overcame them, and another will never wield a sword
for you again.’
‘Did they now? Then there must be a good deal more to them than
meets the eye.’
The booted feet advanced towards them, and Marcus felt the point
of a knife against his throat.
‘Be very still, Roman.’
The knife’s point pressed upwards to dimple the skin under his jaw
as the boots’ wearer appraised the captives. A faint smell of perfume
reached his nostrils, underlaid by the smell of horse sweat and
leather.
‘I can discern nothing while they stare at the floor like slaves in the
market. Raise your eyes, Romans, and let me see the men you
really are. And take your knives from their throats, Tantamani, they
hardly pose any threat to me with their bare hands while there are
thirty swords within a dozen paces.’
The man behind Marcus tensed, the movement almost
imperceptible and yet unmistakable in the tent’s charged
atmosphere, then stepped back a half-pace.
‘You may look upon the Kandake, barbarians. Do so with respect,
and remain silent, or I will cut your throats!’
He looked up to find the Kushite ruler barely outside of arm’s
length, her gaze fixed directly on him. Standing behind her and on
both sides were close to a dozen bodyguards, all women, hard eyes
sweeping the men facing them for any sign of a threat. Armed with
long spears, their armour and weapons were, like their queen’s,
black with silver ornamentation; each of them was equipped with
swords and knives, with a small, round shield designed specifically
for spear-fighting held in each woman’s left hand.
‘Yes, it is a shock, is it not?’ The woman’s expression was
amused, her eyes brilliant emerald fire in an ebony face. ‘You were
expecting a king, regal and powerful, the man who has ripped a
piece from your empire and taken it for his own. And now here I am,
only a woman. You may speak, unless the shock of my sex has
stunned you into silence?’
She stared at him with a raised eyebrow, clearly awaiting a
response.
 ‘I am bedazzled by your presence, Kandake, but not so much so
that I am unable to reply. And yes, with all due respect to your regal
achievements, I was expecting a king.’
‘And?’
‘And I bow my head with respect for your royal presence, Queen
…’
Tantamani spoke from behind him.
‘Amanirenas. On ascending to the throne the Kandake was
advised by the gods, speaking through her priests, to take the name
of her illustrious predecessor, the ruler who forced Rome to come to
the negotiating table and left with the spoils of her victory
undiminished.’
Marcus nodded his understanding.
‘A queen who chose to become an ally of Rome, and whose
successors sent horsemen and archers to the empire’s aid in time of
need.’
The queen stared back at him levelly.
‘I have considered your empire over the years of my rule, in the
ten years since my older brother died and left this burden to me.
Rome is sadly diminished, it seems to me, weakened by the plague
that swept the world and took my brother’s life along with millions
more. Your grip on your lands has been weakened, both by that
blight and by your fool of an emperor, a man who fritters away the
fruits of your dominion on entertainments and whores. Rome was
once strong, an irresistible force with whom Kush made common
cause as a mark of respect, and from necessity, but now your empire
is no longer fit to enjoy the benefits of lands that were ours long
before your emperor Augustus triumphed over the men of Aegyptus.’
Marcus returned her cool stare in silence, unsure as to an
appropriate response, but Demetrius spoke out into the quiet despite
the threat of the knives at his back.
‘The blessings of the Lord Almighty be upon you, glorious
Kandake! I bear the good news of his kingdom in heaven, bought for
all peoples who believe at the cost of his only son’s sacrifice on the
cross.’
The queen raised an eyebrow.
 ‘You are one of this cult of the Nazarene … what are they called
now? Ah yes, I have it, you are a follower of the Christos?’
‘Yes, Kandake, and—’
Amanirenas raised her hand with a flat palm towards him.
‘Be silent, Christian, lest my guards mistake your prattling for an
attempt to convert me to your beliefs, and murder you to prevent
such disrespect. I may not keep lions to execute my prisoners, unlike
my namesake, but my amazons are every bit as dangerous as the
fiercest beast the first Amanirenas kept for the purpose. I call them
my lionesses, and they are sworn to serve me unto death. Your
death, if need be.’ The Greek fell silent, exchanging glances with
Marcus as the queen clicked her fingers in summons. ‘Bring forth my
holy man! Let us see what he makes of these barbarians.’
The tent’s occupants waited in silence as a small, stooped man
was escorted into its airy space by a pair of soldiers who, each
holding one of his arms at the elbow, supported his progress towards
the queen with gentle solicitousness, never seeking to hurry him as
he paced slowly to his mistress’s side. The queen went down on one
knee to look up into her priest’s face, speaking in their own language
rather than Greek. He bowed as deeply as his bent frame allowed
and shuffled closer to Demetrius, who met his questioning gaze with
a direct stare and his customary smile.
After a moment’s consideration of the Christian, the priest shook
his head brusquely and barked a comment at Tantamani, his voice
suddenly stronger than before, his tone one of warning. The queen
laughed softly, shaking her head in amusement.
‘Anlamani tells me that he discerns nothing of any god in you,
Christian, but rather the ruthless spirit of a warrior. You are, it seems,
a killer of men. He has warned my guards to be additionally vigilant
in your case. And he reminds me of the fact that your faith shows no
tolerance for any worship other than of your own god, and that if you
had your way, our temple to Amun would be emptied of his
presence, and wholly devoted to your empty promises. I believe that
silence might be your wisest course from here.’
Turning away from the Greek, the priest momentarily locked stares
with Marcus, his eyes widening involuntarily. Stepping closer, he
reached out a hand and placed it on the Roman’s face, whispering
words under his breath. Nodding slowly, he lowered the hand and
straightened painfully to look into the younger man’s eyes for a long
moment, his clear, hard gaze belying his stooped, painful frame.
When he spoke, it was in slow but perfect Greek, his tone that of a
genuinely surprised man.
‘The mark of the goddess Nephthys is upon you, Roman, for those
with the eyes to see. How is this?’
‘You should answer his question.’ Amanirenas smiled, evidently
amused at the turn of events. ‘Who knows, it might keep you alive a
little longer?’
Marcus shrugged.
‘I met a holy woman in Germania, a country far from here. She
rescued me from the despair that ruled me after my woman died,
and returned me to life by means of a herb potion that made me
dream.’
The priest shook his head.
‘This priestess you speak of was only a vessel for the goddess.
She is the sister of Isis, goddess of birth, and sister-wife to Seth, the
master of war. It is she who cares for the spirits of the dead, and for
those who mourn.’ He reached out to touch the Roman’s face again.
‘With so many tears waiting to be shed, and your woman dwelling
under her wings in the afterlife … how could she not be drawn to
you?’ He raised the hand higher, touching it to Marcus’s forehead,
his eyes widening with shocked realisation at whatever it was that he
sensed through the contact. ‘You are truly gods-touched, Roman!
You have been healed! It was Nephthys who bade you to live anew. I
see it in you, you have been blessed by her power.’
He turned away and spoke to the queen with an animation that
was at odds with his frailty. Amanirenas bowed to him and gestured
to the tent’s door, watching in silence until he had left the tent.
‘My priest tells me that you are a man of honesty, as transparent to
him as the air itself. He says that there is a purity of purpose in you,
and that you are more dangerous than your companion … and yet
more trustworthy. He believes that the goddess would never have
touched a man who was not pure of heart, and he believes that your
word is to be accepted as the truth. He tells me that you will not
break a promise once it has been given. Whereas your fellow
prisoner, he tells me, is a fanatic, a man whose mind is closed to any
path but the one he has chosen, and he is marked for death.’ She
turned to Tantamani. ‘Remove the Christian from my presence. I will
speak with this man and see what light he can shed on our foes in
the fortress.’ Dismissing him with a wave of her hand, a gesture
which seemed to elicit a momentary and swiftly concealed irritation
in the general, she turned back to Marcus. ‘Walk with me, Roman.’
Her bodyguard fell in around her, their entire attention focused on
the Roman’s every move.
‘I would apologise for my lionesses’ somewhat daunting behaviour,
but we both know that the men who rule your empire in place of the
man who should be doing the job would not hesitate for a moment to
order a centurion just like you to kill me. Would he?’
Marcus smiled wryly, keeping his hands by his sides with
deliberate care.
‘I have read the same books as you, Queen, where an officer of
my seniority is often chosen as the ideal assassin. And no, Kandake,
if it would end this war in Rome’s favour, then my tribune would not
hesitate for an instant to issue such an order.’
‘And there was something hidden behind that answer, was there
not?’ She stopped walking and looked him up and down. ‘Are those
your orders? To allow yourself to be captured in the hope of getting
close to the enemy ruler?’
‘No, Kandake.’ He shook his head, unable to prevent himself from
smiling. ‘It wasn’t your veiled accusation that made me smile – but
the words “a centurion like you” are grimly amusing to a man in my
circumstances.’
The queen raised an eyebrow.
‘Intriguing. You can explain that to me once I have shown you
what it is that you face.’ She led him up the slope, stopping at the
ridge’s crest as the sweep of her army’s encampment came into
view. ‘All you have faced this far is a part of my strength, now you
may despair at the might of my clenched fist.’
 The party topped the rise, and Marcus stared out over the wide
plain that stretched away from Premnis. The fortress was well over a
mile distant, a squat ochre rectangle on the skyline, and, in the
space between their vantage point and the maximum extent of the
bolt throwers’ ability to project their deadly missiles, the Kushite army
was encamped. The ground beneath the cliff was black with soldiery
and their equipment, a sea of tents that seemed to extend almost to
the horizon. The queen’s herald raised a shining horn and blew a
single, piercing note that seemed to galvanise the men below them.
As one man they stopped whatever they were doing and turned to
face the cliff, soldiers streaming from their tents and raising their
arms in salute to their queen. The horn sounded again and the army
replied with a roared salute to their ruler which was repeated twice
more before the men below them went back to whatever they had
been doing before the horn’s summons.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ The queen extended an arm to gesture out
over the sprawling encampment. ‘Tens of thousands of men stand
before you, much of my fighting strength. I left enough soldiery to
ensure that my new port of Berenike could not be retaken, if this
were some sort of ruse to tempt me away from my conquest and
allow some other part of your army to strike without warning.’
She turned to Marcus with an appraising gaze.
‘Although I do not believe that to be the case. I think that the men
hiding behind those walls of mine are all of Rome’s strength in
Aegyptus, or all that can be spared at least, and all gambled in one
roll of the dice.’
Marcus remained silent, carefully composing his face so as to give
the queen no clue as to the accuracy of her surmise. After a moment
she smiled, as if his very silence had given her the information she
sought.
‘Not that I left you very much alternative but to play this most
desperate of gambits, given your lack of choices, but I expected to
receive some warning of any move south. Instead of which, the men
who were set to watch that route were found dead. Was this your
doing, chosen one of Nephthys?’
Marcus nodded.
 ‘I had some part in it.’
She stared at him coolly.
‘My soldiers disinterred their comrades who had been sent to
watch the river from the graves that had been dug for their long
sleep. An act for which I am grateful. Some enemies … even some
allies … might have left them for the carrion birds, rather than grant
them that dignity. And in doing so, they discovered the bizarre fact
that one of my officers, a servant of the temple, and well respected
among the men who command my army, had had the skin of his face
removed from his head. Presumably, my officers believe, to allow it
to be used in some form of deception. They have sworn to have the
most extravagant revenge on the man who did this, if they ever have
the power to do so. It was not you, I presume?’
The Roman shook his head.
‘It was not.’
He waited for the question that seemed inevitable, but the queen
turned away and looked out over her host in silence.
‘You know more of this than you say. But no matter. If I have your
word that it was not you, then that is enough for me. For now, at
least. So …’ She raised her hand again. ‘Consider this part of my
army. Twenty thousand men-at-arms, all protected by the stoutest
felt and linen armour, all equipped with strong, iron helmets, all
armed with spears whose blades are made with the finest metal from
across the eastern sea, and carrying shields faced with ebony from
the south of my kingdom. In open battle, they alone would grind your
legion, or whatever ragtag force it is that has chosen to squat
uninvited in my fortress, into the dust of this land, and do so without
any need of assistance from any other part of my army.’
Marcus nodded agreement.
‘And were our men on open ground, you might be right, Kandake,
although they are as disciplined and ready for war as any I have
seen. You might be surprised at the damage they could wreak on
such lightly equipped troops.’
Amanirenas shrugged.
‘We could debate such a match, but it would be academic, for my
army is more than just spearmen. There are my archers, still as
famed with their weapons as in the days when my forebears sent
them to assist your empire.’
‘Although, Kandake, they have been unable to make much of an
impression on the fortress’s defenders, who have instead used them
for target practice.’
The queen shrugged.
‘Your engines of death will run out of missiles to throw at us,
eventually.’
‘But not anytime soon, Your Majesty. We took the precaution of
confiscating several boatloads of wood before your arrival, and even
now the legion’s craftsmen will be hard at work making new shafts
for bolts, which will be tipped with the same high-quality iron used by
your own smiths, intended for traders in the north but instead turned
to Rome’s purpose.’
Amanirenas shook her head with a broad smile.
‘All of which mean nothing. I have thousands of cavalry, hundreds
of my elite temple guards, each the match of five of your legionaries
in any fight, and dozens of war elephants from the south lands, big,
evil-minded monsters with iron-tipped tusks that would run amok
through your ranks … but none of them will ever be needed, will
they?’
Marcus remained silent, simply bowing his head respectfully to
avoid any accusation of disrespect.
‘I see you discern the truth in my words. I allowed Tantamani to
mount an attack on the fortress, when we arrived to find my property
in the hands of Rome, but it was my expectation that he would not
prevail against such a strong defence. The officer who was given
responsibility for making the fortress indefensible would have been
banished to the distant south for the rest of his life, fortunate not to
have been executed, but he begged for the chance to lead the attack
from the front, knowing that he would be among the first to die. And
when it became obvious that that first attack would fail completely, I
commanded Tantamani to pull my army back, and spare them the
lash of your defences.’
She turned to Marcus with a knowing smile.
 ‘I will simply starve your legion out of my fortress, Roman. Two
months … three … six, even. I have the luxury of all the time I need,
and more, because, as we both know, there is no more strength in
Aegyptus to threaten me. Your commander is a bold man, and
knows his history well enough, but he will soon realise that all he has
managed to do is to thrust his head into a noose of his own making. I
can send half my army south, and halve the supply requirement to
keep the remainder in the field, and still have enough strength to
beat your legion to its knees when he eventually has to choose
between battle and surrender – which means I simply have to wait
for hunger to do the job of opening those gates for me.’
The queen nodded at Marcus’s silent, level gaze.
‘I see the confirmation of that truth in your eyes. This is all the
strength Rome has to spare, and your empire will be hard pushed
even to replace this legion and keep control of the grain supply on
which you are so dependent, much less come south with enough
men to retake a port that you can live without. Even as we stand
here, I have already won this contest; indeed it was already mine
before I ever made the choice to follow the urging of my priests, and
restore Meroë’s dignity by taking back the port. And who knows …’
She smiled beatifically, extending a hand to gesture at the host
packed into the plain below them.
‘I may yet choose to advance further north. After all, the land to the
south of Koptos is of little use to Rome, and serves only to buffer our
two kingdoms, which means that who controls it is of little enough
real importance. Koptos will serve as a frontier city equally as well as
Souan. As, for that matter, might your city of Antinoopolis, in the
fullness of time. Would Rome bestir itself to recapture the city that
your emperor Hadrian built in memory of his boy lover? Perhaps we
will discover the truth of that, you and I, myself as the victorious
liberator of lands long subjugated to Rome that once belonged to
Kush, you as my captive.’
She raised a hand and stroked his cheek with a tenderness that
was at odds with her martial statement of unavoidable defeat.
‘Although a place for you at my side might be found, as you are so
beloved of the goddess. Only good would come of having a man like
you at my side, your very presence a thing of wonder. Swear
allegiance to me, Roman, and renounce all fealty to your corrupt and
dissolute emperor, and who knows how high you might rise in my
service?’ She smiled, her stare locked on Marcus’s face. ‘And indeed
my affections.’
 12

‘Your time for the martyrdom you profess to desire is at hand,

Christian. Do you wish to repent your faith?’
Demetrius swayed on his feet, gazing unsteadily at the temple
guard with a split-lipped smile.
‘You already know the answer to that question, Tantamani. I can
no more repent my burning allegiance to the one God than you could
renounce your worship of the multitude of false idols that soothe the
meaningless agony of your existence.’
The Kushite stepped forward and sank a fist into his gut, doubling
the Greek over with a grunt of pain. He had been comprehensively
beaten in the hours since the general had discovered the source of
the bronze used in casting the water bucket, violence made worse
by his unswerving assertions that the statue had been a
blasphemous false idol. The general had been abusing his prisoner
for long enough that the Greek was struggling to stay upright.
Tantamani had circled him with a hard face and clenched fists,
striking vicious blows from every direction that had dropped the
Christian to his knees several times, his footing less steady with
every slow recovery from the pain being inflicted on him. The queen
was watching in silence from her throne as her chief priest and
military leader set out to humiliate his prisoner in front of the
audience of religious statuary arrayed behind her, the gods’ eyes
staring impassively down at the spectacle.
‘You might yet reduce the agony of your death, Christian! Will you
acknowledge the existence of Amun, his wife Nut and his children
whose pantheon inspires and guides our lives?’
The Christian struggled upright, shaking his head in denial.
‘I cannot.’
 ‘Or will not. The end result will be just the same. I will ask you one
last time, will—’
‘No!’ The Greek rallied his strength, his eyes blazing with the
strength of his conviction. ‘I will not! Get thee behind me, you serpent
of—’
Tantamani struck him again, pivoting to deliver a blow to the side
of the captive’s head that felled him, leaving his victim insensible on
the tent’s blood-spattered wooden floor, and Marcus heaved a quiet
sigh of relief at the temporary halt to his friend’s brutalisation.
‘And you?’
His gaze snapped up from contemplation of the Christian’s
sprawled body to find the enemy general in his face, his blood clearly
well and truly up.
‘Will I acknowledge your gods?’ The Roman shrugged. ‘Of course.
I have no problem with any other man’s worship.’
Tantamani shook his head, unsatisfied with the answer and eager
for a reason to visit the same treatment upon the Roman.
‘And will you renounce your own?’
‘Enough!’ Both men turned to face Amanirenas, who had risen
from the throne from which she had witnessed the protracted beating
to which Tantamani had subjected the Christian. ‘I have allowed you
to make an example of the religious pervert, and that will be an end
to it. The gods of Kush have never sought the extermination of other
beliefs, not if their adherents do not seek the extermination of our
own. And at no time has this captive been anything other than
respectful to our kingdom. So satisfy yourself with the one man and
leave the other to me. I have plans for him, whether he appreciates
them or not.’
The general bowed low, shooting Marcus a glance which promised
that he did not consider the matter closed. He gestured to the palace
guards who had been holding Demetrius up since his eventual
collapse under the sustained violence.
‘Bring him. The fate I plan for him requires him to be prepared to
meet his god.’
Once the unconscious victim had been dragged from the tent, the
queen walked over to Marcus with a pair of her female bodyguards
in close attendance, their spears held ready to use as their queen
circled the Roman before speaking again.
‘He will die, and badly. You realise that?’
‘That has already become apparent to me, Your Highness.’
She stopped in front of him, her eyes locked on his.
‘Ah, that understated Roman humour that your ruling class seem
to specialise in. And so tersely worded that you might even pass for
a Spartan. Do they teach you that in school?’
‘It is the product of years of training. When I was younger I had a
habit of expressing my feelings to anyone who would listen, but I
learned to control that urge at the hands of two men, one a former
soldier, one a champion gladiator.’
‘They taught you well. They live still, to take pride in their
creation?’
‘The gladiator died last year, Your Highness. The soldier re-
enlisted to join me when I returned to Rome, and died in the attack
from the river, with an artillery bolt in his back, a rebound from the
water bucket that we forged with metal from the statue of Nut.’
‘Ah. I see the hand of the god Seth, master of war, in this apparent
chance death. He seeks to remind Nephthys that she may favour
you, but must remain constant in her allegiance with the people of
Kush, who are her devotees. Although in taking your friend in such a
way, he has sent her the strongest possible message; he did not
seek to chastise her as he might have done by guiding the machine-
arrow to you, rather than your comrade. It seems that you truly are
gods-favoured.’ The queen stepped forward and took his hand, her
bodyguards fidgeting at the unexpected closeness to an enemy. ‘And
that would explain the sorrow that my priest detected. I am sorry for
your loss, even if you brought it on yourself by invading my land, and
desecrating our gods – even if you did so without malice, but simply
to survive.’
Knowing better than to argue, Marcus simply bowed his head in
recognition of the point and held his silence. After a moment’s
thought, she turned to her amazons and made a dismissive gesture,
issuing a spoken command whose meaning was clear enough from
their unhappy reactions, then repeating the command in a tone that,
even though the word was unfamiliar, clearly brooked no
disobedience. Leaving only the leader of her bodyguard behind – the
female warrior’s eyes fixed on Marcus in a way that promised an
immediate and lethal response to any attempt on her queen’s life –
the remainder of them left the tent. Amanirenas stayed where she
was, close enough to the Roman to reach out and touch.
‘You realise that I see much in you that I find … attractive?’
The Roman bowed slightly.
‘I have come to realise that this is the case, Your Highness. And I
do not believe that it is a secret to those around you either.’
The queen laughed tersely.
‘Their views are of as little interest to me on this as on any other
matter. I am a queen. And queens rule, Roman, regardless of the
opinions of their subjects. It is some small reward for the loss of any
privacy in my daily life, and for the dedication of every waking
moment to my people’s well-being. And when I see something I want
…’
‘You are used to taking it?’
‘Indeed. Although you are not an object to be possessed, are you?
You, Roman, are a man, proud, strong-willed and capable. And so I
do not seek to possess you, but rather to make you my companion.
You will accompany me, and provide me with the opinions of a man
with a new perspective on this life, and perhaps a little of the favour
in which the goddess Nephthys holds you will rub off on me, when I
take you to my bed.’
Astonished, Marcus was unable to speak for a moment, and when
he recovered his composure he found the woman staring at him with
an unabashed hunger that was at once a source of both arousal and
disconcertion.
‘Madam …’
‘I know.’ She stepped closer, her breath warm on his cheek. ‘The
word “unexpected” doesn’t even begin to describe this, does it?
When I was told that you had been captured, my first instinct was
that you and the Christian would make a suitable sacrifice to atone
for the loss of so many of my men to your arrow throwers. And yet
the moment I saw you, I knew that I would be unable to order your
death.’
‘I am …’
Her gaze was unwavering.
‘Gratified? Flattered? After all, I am hardly unattractive beneath the
trappings of war.’
Regaining some of his mental equilibrium, Marcus rallied.
‘No, madam, it’s fair to say that this is something of an unexpected
compliment. And that which I can see of you is, I am bound to admit,
of no small attraction.’
‘But nevertheless I suspect that you would prefer matters if you
were granted some time to consider your response? Being asked to
consort yourself with a Kushite woman of any rank would be novel,
but when you consider the restrictions in your freedom that would
result from joining with me, the question takes on a whole new
meaning, does it not? And that’s before you consider what would
become of you were I to tire of your company, or, worse still, die
before you.’
She leaned forward, putting her lips to his in a momentary kiss and
reaching out a hand to touch him, a perfume of incense and sweat
making his nostrils flare involuntarily as his body responded to the
unexpected provocation. Stepping back with a look of amusement,
the queen smiled knowingly.
‘But this is not an entirely unwelcome suggestion, I see. And I
knew from the moment I saw you that we would be good together,
you and I. But you may take your time. After all, you have plenty of it.
My bodyguards will look after you from now on, in case some spirit of
jealousy should infect my servants and inspire them to an unwise
act. Think on my offer, Roman, and the multitude of benefits that
would undoubtedly be yours were you to abandon your service to
your tottering empire and join yourself with me.’

Led away to another tent, rather than the one in which he and
Demetrius had been held captive, Marcus found himself under the
unsmiling gazes and unwavering spears of two of the queen’s
amazons and, knowing that he was unlikely to be able to engage
with them, laid down and allowed his exhausted body to surrender to
the sleep it craved. Wakened after what seemed like only a short
time, he was led back into the royal tent, shepherded at spear point
by another pair of the queen’s bodyguards whose intent, hawk-like
attention was that of women who both disapproved of their
mistress’s choice but were at the same time committed to
discharging their duty. Half expecting Amanirenas to be waiting for
him, he was instead escorted through the tent’s opulent
surroundings and out into the harsh sunlight, on the same path along
which she had led him to view her army at their first meeting.
Waiting at the ridge’s edge were the queen herself, in a circle of
her lionesses, and Tantamani, who was, the Roman noted,
accompanied by an equal number of his own men. Uneasy glances
were being exchanged between the two groups, in between whom a
figure dressed in a white robe was waiting. As he drew closer,
Marcus realised with a sinking feeling that it was Demetrius, his head
shaved; what had at first glance looked like hair was in fact a tightly
woven crown of thorns that had been forced down onto the newly
bared flesh until blood had flowed down his face and neck to stain
the otherwise pristine garment. Seeing Marcus’s approach, the
general stared with unbridled hostility as the Roman’s guards guided
him to a spot behind the queen’s protectors, then shrugged and
turned to approach the ridge’s edge. What appeared to be the entire
Kushite army was mustered in ordered ranks before the natural
podium, a mass of armed and armoured men standing impassively
under the unblinking desert sun with their attention fixed on the
queen’s slight figure. Nodding to Marcus with an unreadable
expression, she too turned to face the host, raising her voice to be
heard across the plain. Speaking in Greek, she paused after each
sentence to allow her words to be repeated in her own language.
‘Men of my army! You have already won a great victory for the city
of Meroë! We have taken back Berenike from the people who stole it
from us centuries ago! You have made the people of Kush proud
again!’
She paused, and in the ranks before her, officers turned to face
their men, raising their spears to orchestrate the expected roar of
acclamation.
‘Now the Romans have shown their deceitful nature! They have
invaded land that was ceded to us a hundred years ago! They have
squatted in our fortress of Premnis, uninvited! And they have
destroyed a holy statue of the goddess Nut in their defiance of all
that we are!’
Another pause, and the army roared its approval again, spear
points and sword blades reflecting the bright sunlight as they waved
in the air.
‘Now we must send them a message! We must show them what
will happen to them all, if they do not agree to leave!’
The queen nodded to Tantamani, and the general waved to a
group of horsemen waiting at the army’s edge. Raising their banners
in salute, they turned towards the fortress and walked their horses
forward, lowering the flags in a ceremonial display of temporary
truce.
‘My message to the Romans is this: surrender, or every one of you
will receive the same treatment as this man!’ Amanirenas gestured
to Demetrius, who stared resolutely forward, ignoring the roar as her
army, anticipating entertainment, shouted their approval anew. ‘Bring
out the means of this man’s punishment and death!’
Marcus and Demetrius’s eyes met, and the Greek smiled
lopsidedly in recognition of the irony that was apparently to be visited
upon him. Seeing the silent exchange, Amanirenas turned to face
Marcus and beckoned him to her side, her amazons parting to allow
his approach but retaining their hard-eyed vigilance.
‘You and this follower of the Christos are truly friends, or simply
comrades?’
The Roman nodded.
‘We have become brothers-in-arms.’
‘Then as a mark of my favour, would-be bed partner, I will allow
you to speak with him for a short time. Perhaps you can offer him
some comfort before my priests enact this ceremony on which they
are so set.’ She looked to the leader of her lionesses. ‘Accompany
him. Ensure the temple guards do him no harm.’
Scaurus watched the riders walking their mounts across the open
space in front of the fortress, his face set in an expression of
composure that the men around him knew he was far from feeling.
‘Messengers. I will go down and meet them, since they come
alone and under an offer of truce. Would you care to accompany me,
First Spear?’
Abasi nodded.
‘I am curious to hear what threats they might have to offer, now
that they have failed to dislodge us by both land and water.’
The additional bolt throwers that had been posted to the north-
western corner of the fortress had been left in place, in case the
Kushites attempted any repeat of their attack, although the
wholesale destruction of their vessels had, it seemed – coupled with
the gruesome manner in which the river’s crocodiles had feasted on
the crews who had chosen to leap from their burning craft into the
water – clearly been enough to dissuade the enemy from any such
thought. Tribune and First Spear made their way down from the wall,
Abasi gathering half a dozen of the century guarding the portal
before leading them out onto the flat, stony ground.
‘Form a semi-circle around the tribune and keep your eyes open
for treachery! I don’t trust these devious bastards any more than I’d
cuddle up to a viper!’
Approaching the waiting horseman at the head of the small party,
he raised a hand to stop his men when they had advanced close
enough to the riders for a spoken exchange.
‘Well now, what can I do for you gentlemen?’ Scaurus kept his
tone light, watching as the man who was evidently the Kushite
emissary climbed down from his horse. ‘I have to warn you that we
don’t have enough space for you all, if you’ve come to discuss
surrender terms!’
The messenger put his hands on his hips and adopted a wide-
legged stance, looking up at the fortress walls before replying.
‘I come from Her Majesty Amanirenas, queen and Kandake of the
Kushite empire, ruler of the mighty city of Meroë and all its
conquered lands, and I have a message for the officer in command
of this illegal occupation of our fortress of Premnis.’
 The Roman nodded, absorbing the news that he faced not a king
but a queen with straight-faced equanimity.
‘And I am Gaius Rutilius Scaurus, tribune of Rome and the officer
commanding the emperor’s Second Legion, named Trajan’s Valiant
Legion for its exploits in battle. And while I refute your claim to be the
owner of this temporarily vacated fastness, now legally and
permanently reclaimed in the name of its rightful owner, I am willing
to listen to your queen’s salutation.’
The messenger continued without any recognition of the challenge
to his authority.
‘Her Majesty’s instructions are these: remove your presence from
my fortress without delay and march north to leave our lands,
swearing never to return, and she will overlook this transgression
and the unfortunate loss of life suffered by her army in attempts to
enforce her right to occupy this place. Further, she will also forgive
the blasphemous destruction of a statue to the goddess Nut which,
she is informed, has been melted down in order to make a water
bucket – but only if your withdrawal is both prompt and permanent. If
you choose to reject this generosity, however, you will receive a
robust and humiliating punishment which will now be demonstrated
to you by its being visited on one of the prisoners taken by the river
two nights ago. Observe this man’s suffering, and you will see how
the kingdom of Meroë takes Amun’s vengeance on those who
perform sacrilege against his rule, and the sanctity of his temple’s
pantheon.’
Scaurus shook his head grimly.
‘I cannot accept these terms. But I will offer my own. If the
Kandake orders a withdrawal from Rome’s port of Berenike now, and
swears that neither she nor her descendants will ever again set foot
on Roman soil, we can end this war, which is not of Rome’s
choosing, amicably. Premnis will again belong to Meroë, and the
empire of Kush can once again enjoy the fruits of alliance with the
world-spanning empire of Rome. Decline to do so, and Rome will
summon its strength from the surrounding provinces and come to
war in force. Meroë will be crushed under its boot, and the empire of
Kush’s long rule will be at an end. I trust we understand each other?’
 The messenger stared hard at him for a moment, then replied in a
tone that signalled the end of the discussion.
‘I understand only that there is nothing more to be said. Actions
will now speak for Meroë, and the piteous cries of your comrade as
he dies will inform you as to our deep anger with the insult of your
boots on our land.’ He remounted, turning his horse away with a final
comment called back over his shoulder. ‘Send an emissary if you
wish to speak again, for my queen will make no further attempt to
make peace when faced with such intransigence!’
The Romans watched him ride away, the horsemen around him
keeping their lances lowered in what the Romans presumed was a
signal of their ultimatum’s rejection. Scaurus shaded his eyes
against the sun’s glare, trying to discern what was happening on the
ridge a mile distant.
‘Surely not?’ He pointed, his face creased in a frown of disbelief.
‘Is that … a cross?’

Passing through the cordon of guards with a pair of amazons on

either side, Marcus got to within arm’s length of his friend before the
men guarding him raised their spears to prevent any contact
between the two. Close up, the Greek’s face was covered in bruises,
and his body trembled with the after-effects of the violence done to
him, but his eyes were still as hard and bright as before the beating,
and when he spoke it was apparent that his spirit was undaunted.
‘So, Centurion, now we see the fate that the Lord has spared me
for all these years. I am to provide an example to these heathens,
and to our own men, and to inspire conversion from your collective
idolatrous ways to the one true faith.’
Marcus looked around at the upright and cross-beam of a cross
lying on the ground a few paces away where the men who had
carried it to the spot had dropped their burden, a heavy hammer and
long nails waiting beside them.
‘They will make you carry that down to the place of your execution,
and then they will nail you to it, just outside the reach of our artillery
but close enough that your screams will be heard by the men on the
walls. And you of all people must know that you will die in the
slowest and most agonising manner possible. Surely you can spare
yourself that indignity?’
The Greek smiled sadly at him.
‘Surely, I could. But, equally surely, I cannot. Would you forego
such a death, if you knew that by dying in that way you would be
reunited with your loved ones, in heaven?’
‘No. In truth it would be a small price to pay.’
‘And there, my friend, you have it. I am to die, slowly, painfully, but
gloriously. I will join the ranks of martyrs, and when my turn at the
gate to heaven comes, I will walk through with my head high,
redeemed of all my sins in the service of the Lord. This is what will
be.’ He smiled again. ‘And as for you, Marcus Valerius Aquila, go
with the blessings of the Lord upon you, whether you desire them or
not. I foresee great things for you.’
Marcus nodded, straightening and raising his hand in salute.
‘Go well, Demetrius. I will report your sacrifice to your brothers in
Alexandria, if I ever see the city’s walls again.’

After a moment to organise themselves into a guard around the

Christian, the temple guards ordered him to pick up the heavy
wooden cross-beam. Two men helped him to seat it over his right
shoulder, eliciting a grimace of pain as the wood’s rough edge dug
into his flesh through the flimsy tunic to draw more blood.
‘Pull all the faces you like, Roman!’ Tantamani strode out before
the small party, raising his voice to make the most of the moment of
humiliation. ‘You will provide entertainment for the army of Kush in
your dying, and curse your master the Christos as you follow in his
footsteps!’
Demetrius smiled at him through the pain, grunting a breathless
snarl of defiance.
‘Harder men than you have tried to break me, heathen! Bring me
your pain, and watch me revel in my martyrdom!’
A whip snaked out from the men waiting behind him, its tip carving
a bloody furrow in his thigh and making him start, but, baring his
teeth with the effort, he retained his grip on the cross and started
walking in the direction that the men before him directed with their
sword blades, a path descending to the plain below. Putting a foot on
a pebble, he staggered and went down on one knee, the whip
cracking again to spur him back onto his feet with a visibly straining
effort that left him panting from the effort. The whip struck a third
time, expertly wielded, ripping through the tunic’s flimsy fabric and
drawing fresh blood from his back, and with a muffled groan of pain
the Greek staggered forward again, the dust at his feet spotted with
red where his fresh wounds were bleeding. The soldiers standing on
either side of his path through their ranks to the intended place of his
execution watched in silence as the bloodied Christian made his
tortuously slow progress across the plain. A dozen war elephants
towered over them in a naked display of force, the stink of their
faeces noisome in the sun’s burning heat. Demetrius emitted what
Marcus momentarily thought was a whimper of pain, and then
realised was laughter – wheezing, strained, but undeniably
amusement. He drew a breath and called out to Marcus, the gleeful
note in his voice at odds with his dire circumstances.
‘When you see Dubnus again, tell him that elephant shit stinks!’
The whip cracked again, but if Demetrius felt the pain then he
showed no sign of it, seemingly focused on putting one step in front
of another, as he staggered along the path between the two ranks of
soldiers. After another fifty yards he slumped down again, unable to
go on such was his exhaustion, and Marcus turned to the queen in
silent question. Amanirenas nodded, gesturing to the helpless
Greek.
‘You may help your friend.’
She called to her guards, and the amazons cleared a path through
the temple guards gathered around the fallen Greek to allow the
Roman to get to his friend. Demetrius shook his head on seeing his
friend’s approach, attempting to wave him away with an exhausted,
feeble gesture.
‘What do you think you’re doing? This cross is mine to carry.’
‘I am helping a friend with his last burden.’ Marcus turned to the
closest of the guards. ‘Carry him to wherever it is that you intend to
kill him. I will carry his cross.’
 The Kushites looked to Tantamani, who shrugged and gestured to
the fallen Greek.
‘You have saved me the trouble of ordering you to do so. Take up
your comrade’s burden, but do not expect to be spared the lashes
that were intended for him.’
The queen’s stare at her general was one of near-hatred, but
Marcus shrugged and walked over to the fallen cross-beam, raising it
to balance on end and then allowing it to rest on his shoulder. An
experimental flex of his knees let him take the measure of its dead
weight, then an upward lunge with all the strength of his thighs
enabled him to lift the heavy load and stand. With a crack, the whip
struck, a white-hot flare of pain on the back of his neck making him
stagger before he regained control of the beam’s ungainly weight,
and started trudging forward behind the men who were dragging
Demetrius’s semi-conscious body.
‘You are not built for such a task, are you, Roman? Or even
accustomed to carrying such weight.’ Looking sideways he saw that
the general had come to walk beside him, grinning at his prisoner’s
discomfiture. ‘It will do the Kandake good to see you struggle in this
way. Perhaps it will even cure her of the infatuation that she seems
to have for you.’ He laughed at the Roman’s attempt to present a
blank expression. ‘You thought I didn’t know? I know everything that
happens in her life, trust me on that. And can you imagine me
allowing any sort of liaison between the two of you? When all this is
done, and your friend there has been left for the crows to pick clean,
I will have you killed, quickly, silently and without any trace of
violence. All that poor little Amanirenas will know is that the white-
skinned enemy she found so alluring is dead, with no known cause.
She will suspect me, of course, but there will never be any proof.
Kush will be protected from such juvenile stupidity in one who ought
to know better, and Rome’s defeat here will be final, with no risk of
your influence softening her heart. Make the most of the few hours
that you have left.’
Marcus laughed, ignoring the pain in his back and shoulder.
‘You haven’t actually seen a crucifixion then?’
Tantamani shrugged.
 ‘No. But I look forward to seeing this blasphemer pay the price for
his destruction of a sacred idol. Why do you ask?’
Marcus grimaced at the cross-beam’s weight, forcing himself to
keep putting one foot in front of another despite his crushing burden.
‘Because it takes more than a few hours for the victim to die. It can
be a matter of days, on occasion.’
‘In which case I suppose you had better pray to whatever god it is
that you believe in that he takes as long as possible. Because when
he leaves this life, you will be following him, and not very far behind.
I will tell him to tarry a while and wait for you. Who knows, perhaps
the ferryman will take you both for the price of one!’

‘It’s a cross, all right, I can see some poor bastard carrying the cross-
beam and a team of men behind him with the upright. Although I
reckon they’re going to nail up the man in front of him in the white
robe.’
Shading his eyes against the glare, Dubnus was staring intently at
the procession through the enemy army, desperate for any sign of
his friend.
‘What makes you say that?’
The Briton stared for a moment longer before answering Qadir’s
question.
‘He’s being carried by a man on each side, by the look of it, which
means they’ve already beaten the shit out of him.’
The Hamian watched the distant scene for a moment, as eager to
make some sense of it as his comrade.
‘You’re right; one man carrying the cross, another to be placed
upon it. I doubt that this can be anyone other than our brother
Marcus and the Christian. Is it wrong of me to hope that it is
Demetrius who is to receive the martyrdom we both know he
craves?’
Dubnus shook his head.
‘No. As long as our boy lives another day, that’s all I care about.
Although how he’s going to survive being imprisoned by those
barbarians is a mystery to me.’
 They watched as the white-robed figure was lowered to the floor,
and the man they presumed to be Marcus allowed his burden to fall
onto the ground beside him.
‘That’s where they’re going to do it then.’
‘Indeed.’ Qadir measured the distance with a practised eye. ‘Too
distant for there to be any hope of an accurate shot to put him out of
his misery, I’d say.’ He turned to the ballista captain standing stolidly
beside them. ‘Any chance you could hit them from here?’
The legionary shook his head with pursed lips.
‘Not even a remote chance, Centurion. I couldn’t get a shot within
fifty paces of him.’
‘In which case, it seems, someone is going to have a long day of
it.’

‘Here! In full view of the fortress, but outside the reach of their arrow
throwers. And do you see, Greek, I have a whipping post ready for
you! Strip and bind him!’
The temple guards tore away the bloodied white robe at their
master’s order, pulling Demetrius’s unresisting body onto the stout
post, binding his hands around it to prevent him pulling away.
Amanirenas watched from inside the circle of her bodyguards,
sphinx-like in her serene detachment from the events playing out.
‘Now whip him, fifty lashes as fast and hard as possible! Let him
know the anger of Amun!’
A pair of temple guards took up positions on either side of the
post, shaking out their whips and judging by eye the optimum
distance to stand from him, then signalled their readiness.
‘Begin!’
Taking turns to strike, the two men swung their goads with all the
strength in their bodies, sweat flying from their exertions. The whip
blows cut thick weals into the Greek’s back, and his body jerked
spasmodically with every cracking impact. After twenty of so strokes
he slumped against the post, pushing out his feet to remain upright,
riding the incessant onslaught’s waves of pain as the horrific
punishment continued.
 ‘You might just kill him, of course. That would be a shame, when
he so wants to be nailed to the cross.’
Tantamani shot a sideways glance at Marcus, attempting to
discern any hint of defiance to punish, but found only a stolid stare
fixed on the suffering Greek.
‘You are right, even if your concern is one of weakness and pity.’
The general shouted a command to his men. ‘Enough! He is ready!
Untie him and bring forward the cross!’
Upright and cross-beam had been fixed together with nails to form
a T-shape, and as Demetrius was freed from the whipping post, the
instrument of his execution was placed on the ground beside him.
Tantamani pointed to the newly-constructed torture frame with a
gloating expression.
‘Now see, Roman, how the men of Kush are every bit as learned
as your own scholars! I have read Josephus, and his account of the
executions outside Jerusalem in the far north was particularly
instructive! I know how these things are done! Place him on the
cross!’
The almost insensible Greek was laid on the wooden structure
with his arms outstretched, and the Kushite walked forward to take
up the hammer and nails.
‘I will do this myself! Let no man say that Tantamani, warrior-priest
of the temple of Amun, was not the first and foremost in punishing a
man who so deeply offended our gods!’
Squatting, he directed a guard to hold the Christian’s hand flat
against the wooden surface before placing the point of a nail against
his wrist.
‘Placed just here, the nail will not pierce the veins beneath the
surface. And see, I have this …’ He showed Marcus a disc of wood
through which the nail had been pushed. ‘This will prevent him from
simply pulling his arm free.’
Raising the hammer, he drove the nail down through flesh and
wood, eliciting a groan of pain from Demetrius, the Greek’s legs
tensing uncontrollably against the pain as he cried out in Latin.
‘Lord, forgive my sins against so many of your children! Accept my
sacrifice and wash me free of my sin!’
 Amanirenas looked at Marcus in bafflement.
‘What is he saying?’
‘He was once a persecutor of his own kind, before he converted to
follow the Christos. And he is no stranger to this means of execution.
He calls upon his god to forgive him for the men he did the same to,
with his suffering here as a form of recompense.’
‘He accepts this punishment?’
The Roman shook his head.
‘No, Your Highness. He craves it.’
Tantamani drove in the second nail, securing the Greek’s other
wrist, stepping back to admire his handiwork as Demetrius panted
with the waves of pain gripping his arms.
‘Such a tidy job I have done for you, blasphemer! There will be no
release from loss of blood for you!’ He gestured to the guards. ‘Hold
his feet for me, as I showed you!’ Placing their prisoner’s feet on
either side of the wooden upright, the temple guards watched in
horrified fascination as their master placed another nail’s head
against the Greek’s heel. ‘Take a tight grip, for when I drive this nail
through his heel bone, the pain will make him struggle all the more.’
He swung the hammer, forcing the iron point through the bone
beneath the heel’s skin, and Demetrius howled with the brutal
intrusion. But as the hammer pushed the nail through his flesh and
bone and into the wood, his scream of agony became a howled
entreaty to the sky above.
‘See my suffering, Lord! Accept my entreaty for your forgiveness!’
Marcus translated for the queen without being bidden.
‘He is asking for forgiveness, Your Highness.’
Amanirenas nodded, her face a study in perplexity.
‘He is being punished for his blasphemy, but calls to be forgiven
for murders he committed years ago?’
‘He sees himself as what the Greeks call a martyr.’
‘I have read this word. He accepts suffering and death in the name
of his god.’
‘Yes.’ Marcus winced as the last nail was driven into Demetrius’s
other heel, dragging another ragged scream from his bloodied lips.
‘He knows the torture that now awaits – hours and days of hovering
on the brink of death – and yet this is everything he has desired ever
since the day he was converted to this belief in one god above all
others.’
‘It is indeed a strong faith.’ The queen stared in disbelief as the
temple guards raised the cross and manoeuvred its base into a hole
dug for the purpose of allowing it to stand upright, the Greek grunting
with the pain as it dropped into the improvised socket. ‘He is …
smiling? How can he be happy when his body is being destroyed in
this way?’
‘Why not ask him, Your Highness?’
The queen nodded and strode forward, her amazons
accompanying her to clear the temple guards from her path. She
stood at the base of the cross looking up at the Greek, who returned
her gaze through eyes slitted with pain and yet was still smiling.
‘Why do you smile, Christian? Surely you must know that you will
rot on this cross long after your death, forgotten and abandoned?’
Grunting with the effort of flexing his arms and pushing up against
the nails through his heels to prevent his body slumping, and
subjecting him to the agony of asphyxiation, Demetrius shook his
head.
‘No man is ever alone when he has embraced the glory of the Lord
our God, Queen!’
Tantamani stepped forward with a sneer.
‘Ignore him, Kandake, he is a babbling fool! Where is your god
now, blasphemer? How has he allowed this to be done to you if he is
so omnipotent?’
The Greek smiled again.
‘He is everywhere, idolater! Even now he is in the temples of your
gods, making a mockery of your beliefs with his all-knowing, all-
seeing, all-ruling power.’ He coughed, hoisting his body on the nails’
pivots to breathe. ‘And he will bring your kingdom of lies to an end
when the time is right!’
The general snatched a spear and made to thrust it into the
Christian’s body, then smiled slowly and stepped back, lowering the
unblooded blade.
 ‘No, that would be too easy a way out for you. And perhaps what
you sought to provoke me to, I suspect. You can take your time
dying, and if in the meantime you wish to entertain yourself with
stories for children, be my guest!’

‘That was Demetrius, no doubt about it.’

Scaurus didn’t acknowledge Dubnus’s statement, his attention
fixed on the army paraded before Premnis’s walls.
‘What is your view of our tactical position, First Spear? Could we
attack now, while they are distracted, and hope to win?’
Abasi stepped forward and stared over the parapet in bleak
assessment of their position.
‘Our strength inside these walls is also our weakness, Tribune. If I
had the legion deployed and ready to fight, on level ground like that
beneath us, I might just have an advantage over men fascinated with
the death of a tortured captive, despite their overwhelming numbers,
but by the time we could get our men out of the fortress and into line
of battle, they would be over their surprise and ready to greet us.
And beside that …’ he scanned the enemy ranks again before
continuing, ‘I do not see their cavalry. I suspect that they would allow
us to get halfway through any deployment and then sweep in from
both flanks. No – speaking tactically, there is no advantage to be had
here.’
‘As I thought.’ The Roman shook his head. ‘All we can do is hope
that the Christian’s god chooses to be merciful to him. Although
when I consider the stories he has told us as to his role in
suppressing the very religion he has come to embrace, it’s hard to
imagine why such a vengeful deity wouldn’t allow him a sizeable
dose of the same agony he visited on so many others, before
deciding whether to call him to his side. In either case, I suspect that
he is in for a long and trying day.’

With the heat of the day fading towards the dusk, Amanirenas called
for refreshments to be brought to the execution site, and
commanded that her army be dismissed to their camp to eat, with
men left to mount a watch on the fortress. Pinned under the
relentless sun throughout the afternoon, his pale flesh rapidly turning
red as it was burned by exposure to the scorching sunlight,
Demetrius had struggled against his own body weight with
increasing desperation. Alternately sagging from the nails through
his wrists to relieve the strain on his arms, but at the cost of panting
desperately for breath, he had been forced to constantly hoist
himself up to breathe more freely, ever more exhaustedly. But with
the onset of night he was evidently spent, slumping more than rising
up, his breathing noticeably more laborious than an hour before, his
legs smeared with excrement from an uncontrollable bowel
movement brought on by such physical punishment.
‘Perhaps your friend’s time is short after all, eh, Roman? Perhaps
the heat of the desert has sapped his ability to resist. I believe that
he will be dead before the dawn.’
Tantamani smiled at Marcus, the murderous intent in his eyes
obvious to the younger man.
‘Perhaps so.’ Amanirenas spoke from behind them, a cup of wine
undrunk in her hand as she looked up at the Greek’s weakening
struggle for life. ‘But I must admit that I find his example an
enlightening one.’
The general turned to regard his queen with something bordering
on hostile disbelief, in the moment before he managed to smooth his
features into a mask of apparent indifference.
‘But surely you glory in the punishment of the man who happily
admitted that he took a hammer to the statue of Nut, my Queen?’
Amanirenas looked up at the Greek for a moment, taking a sip
from her goblet of wine.
‘I am pleased by the punishment of that crime against our gods,
Tantamani. And yet I find the bravery with which the criminal has
accepted his punishment a fascinating example of dedication to a
cause.’
‘I cannot share that admiration, Your Majesty. And neither, I
expect, does your priest? Shall we ask him?’
The queen nodded her acceptance of her general’s point, and the
elderly shaman Anlamani was led forward from the shaded chair in
which he had dozed for most of the afternoon. Helped to stand
before the cross, he looked up at Demetrius with an expression of
distaste, drawing himself up to speak to the dying man.
‘See, Christian, the depths of agony to which your belief has
brought you? Will you not renounce your misguided beliefs, and earn
a swift and merciful death?’
The Greek looked down at him, smiling through the pain as he
lifted himself to breathe deeply enough to make some reply. When
he spoke, his voice was hoarse from the screaming that had strained
his vocal cords beyond their limit, but the strength in his words was
enough to widen the old man’s eyes.
‘Do you see it, idolater? Do you comprehend the true strength of
the followers of Christ? I can no more renounce my faith in the one
true God than you can stop clinging to the superstition that sustains
you, no matter how flimsy!’
‘Blasphemer!’ The priest pointed a finger at the helpless Greek,
while behind him Tantamani grinned broadly, seeing the encounter
play out exactly as he had hoped, as the aged cleric raised a hand in
the warding gesture. ‘May you die in agony! May you find yourself
adrift in an ocean of darkness as your punishment in the afterlife!
Amun and his war master Seth will seek you out, and flay the skin
from your bones a thousand times for such an insult!’
The Christian coughed painfully, slumping down for a moment
before raising himself up to spit a vehement response with the last of
his strength. Straining against the nails pinning his flesh to the cross,
his words were hoarse and snatched, his chest heaving as he fought
for the air with which to defy the men below him.
‘God will have his vengeance on you … for this indignity! On you
and all your … so-called gods! This triumph … will be ashes in your
mouth … when he rides to victory over … your empty graven
images!’
‘Kill him!’ The priest turned to Amanirenas, spit flying with the
vehemence of his fury. ‘Do not allow him to spew his poison any
longer!’
‘No!’ All eyes turned to the queen, who had paced forward to
intervene. ‘There will be no premature end to this man’s life!’
 Both priests turned to her aghast, the elder raising a hand in denial
of her authority.
‘You must not contradict us in this matter, Kandake! You do not
have the—’
‘I am your queen! I have supreme authority over you and every
other man in this land and you will obey me!’
Standing behind the amazons, Marcus realised that they were
ready to fight, their spears no longer held in the vertical rest position
but with the blades angled towards the men facing them.
Tantamani’s eyes narrowed, and he looked to one side at his guards,
perhaps taking the measure of their readiness to stand beside him,
but before anyone could react to the swiftly changing circumstances,
an urgent hail shattered the moment’s deadly spell.
‘My Kandake!’ A dismounted cavalryman hurried into the
execution circle, limping rather than striding, dried blood caking the
skin of his right calf from a deep cut above his knee. ‘My Kandake,
Meroë is invaded!’
‘What?’
Tantamani swivelled to face the newcomer, putting out a hand to
steady him as the ashen-faced soldier stumbled, but Marcus noted
that Amanirenas did not move any closer to his temple guards,
instead making a surreptitious hand signal to her bodyguard to close
up around her.
‘Invasion, my Lord! The city of Napata is afire and the temple of
Amun on Jebel Barkal is sacked!’
‘Who has done this? Surely Rome has no way to—’
‘No, my Lord General, it was the Blemmyes! They came out of the
western desert without warning, thousands strong! We are betrayed,
and they have carried away the golden statues of Amun and Nut
from the holiest of our temples!’
The priests stared at him, aghast, but in the moment of silence the
first voice heard came from above them. Revelling in the turn of
events, Demetrius grated out a hoarse laugh.
‘The Lord my God has avenged me! Your boasts have proven as
empty as the altars of your so-called temple!’ He looked up at the
darkening sky. ‘Take my spirit, Lord, I am ready to join you!’
 Tantamani snatched a spear from the closest guard and spun,
ready to strike up at the jubilant Christian.
‘No!’
He froze at the tone of the queen’s voice, looking at her in disbelief
with the spear raised, the blade less than a hand’s length from the
Christian’s chest.
‘This is my authority! I am head priest of Meroë, guardian of the
temple and protector of the people, and I say this man dies!’
Amanirenas made a flicking gesture with her right hand, the index
finger pointed at her general, and with the speed and purpose of
long practice, the amazons standing to either side of her lunged
forward and struck. One blade went high, spearing through her
general’s chest to pierce both lungs in swift succession, the other
darting in low twice to tear through the skin of his thighs and open
the arteries beneath their skin. Stepping back to set their bloodied
blades in defence of the queen, they were joined by the remainder of
her bodyguard in a line of sharp iron facing off against the
astonished temple guards.
‘But …’ Tantamani staggered forward a pace, blood pouring down
his legs and spluttering from his lips. ‘I am your priest …’
The queen stared at him with hatred in her eyes, her true feelings
revealed in regal fury.
‘You were both priest and general! And with that power, you forced
a war upon me that Meroë neither needed nor wanted! A war whose
only true aim was to make you stronger, strong enough to rule! Oh
yes, I heard the mutterings, a man better than a woman, the glory of
Kush to be restored. And so I readied myself for your treachery and
waited!’
‘You are … undone … idolater!’
Amanirenas looked up at the panting Christian, putting a finger to
her lips.
‘Save your strength, man of God. I will have you down from your
place of torture soon enough.’
‘Kandake! You cannot—’
She rounded on the elderly priest with renewed fury, pointing at
the stricken general who had sunk to his knees and was staring
down at the puddle of blood in which he was kneeling with horror.
‘You have led me to this point of disaster just as much as that fool!
And you would have connived with him to put a priest on the throne!
You may live, but you will take no further part in my rule!’
She raised a hand to command the stunned temple guards, every
ounce of her regal authority in the gesture and words.
‘Honourable guards of the temple, you have been misled by your
priests! They sought to remove your rightful queen, and place
themselves on the throne in perpetuity! And in their desire for power
they have left our homeland vulnerable, with the result we now see!
Now you have a choice: side with the priests or obey your queen
when I order you to kneel and disarm yourselves! Choose now!’
The lionesses opened their ranks without any command, giving
themselves room in which to fight, and Marcus was unsurprised to
see those guardsmen facing them look at each other in
consternation for a moment, before first one man and then his
comrades knelt and unbuckled their sword belts. Nodding grimly to
her bodyguards to collect their weapons, she pointed up at the
helpless Demetrius.
‘Now right the wrong that you have done! Get this man down from
this barbaric instrument of torture, and be careful to do him no further
harm unless you wish to take his place! There is much that I wish to
discuss with him, once his wounds have been tended and he has
had the chance to recuperate. And now you, Roman, can
accompany me to the walls of my fortress for a brief negotiation with
the man whose idea it was to use its capture as a means of getting
my attention. I believe that this new situation requires something of a
restatement in the relationship between your people and mine!’

‘There’s a party approaching, First Spear!’

Staring out into the gloom in the direction that the legionary was
indicating, it took the officers a moment to resolve the advancing
figures from their almost dark background. Abasi was the first to
react.
‘Torches! Get them lit up! Bolt throwers, ready to shoot!’
 They watched as the soldiers guarding the gate lit brands and
hurled them out onto the stony ground while the artillery pieces to
either side were cranked to their maximum depression, pointing out
into the darkness beyond their semi-circle of soft, red light.
‘That’s close enough!’ Scaurus command was pre-emptory as he
stared out into the dusk murk at the unidentified enemy. ‘If you come
any nearer than the torches, then the only way I’ll be able to make
you go away will be with boiling animal fat, and I promise you that
you wouldn’t enjoy the experience!’
‘That won’t be necessary, Tribune!’
‘Marcus!’ Dubnus started forward, disbelieving as his friend
stepped into the light of the burning brands. ‘It’s him!’
The young centurion waved wearily, gesturing for someone behind
him to come forward, and a black, armoured figure walked forward
into the torchlight.
‘Allow me to introduce the Kandake Amanirenas, queen of Meroë
and protector of the empire of Kush!’
He fell silent for a moment, allowing time for the man on the wall
above him to absorb what it was that he had just said.
‘All this was because some woman decided to have herself a
war?’
Abasi raised an eyebrow at Dubnus.
‘You didn’t have a mother?’
‘Yes, but she wouldn’t—’
‘She might have, if she’d been born a queen.’
‘As it happens …’ The Briton shook his head and shut his mouth,
catching a hard stare from Scaurus. ‘It would take too long.’
‘Exactly.’ The tribune turned to Ptolemy. ‘You didn’t know that the
ruler of Meroë is a woman?’
‘Indeed not, Tribune.’ The scribe returned his gaze with a hint of
irritation. ‘The royal family of Meroë does not see fit to inform the
imperial secretariat of its changes of ruler, and so it is only when the
news reaches Alexandria by more conventional means, which can
take months, that we discover such matters.’
‘I see.’ The Roman leaned over the wall to look at Marcus as
closely as possible at fifty paces distance. ‘You look well enough,
Centurion! So tell me, what is it that I can do for the Kandake that
she comes to my walls unannounced?’
The response was prompt, obviously rehearsed.
‘The Kandake requests that you enter into face-to-face
negotiations with her immediately, as she has a pressing matter to
deal with to the south of here!’ He gestured to the shadowy figures
standing behind him. ‘Her lionesses are jealous in guarding her, so I
would suggest that you leave any weapons with your own guards?’
Abasi’s voice was at best sceptical in tone.
‘You want me to send my commander out onto a darkened
landscape with who knows what hidden out of view?’
The woman standing next to Marcus stepped forward into full view,
her armour reflecting the fire’s light in gleaming red and orange.
‘I am Amanirenas, daughter and only surviving child of Shabaka,
king of Meroë, and I am the rightful ruler of Kush, an empire that
already existed a thousand years before Rome’s founders lived in a
hut on a hill above a marsh! My predecessors conquered not just this
land, but all of Aegyptus as well, and were known as the Black
Pharaohs! We have seen off every major power that has ever
chosen to confront us in battle! Saites, Assyrians, Persians,
Ptolemies and yes, Romans too, and while we have never bent the
knee to any rival, neither have we ever been accused of falsehood!
So hear this, Roman, and then decide whether you wish for peace or
war. If you come to talk with me, here and now, I will offer my own
life as surety. Aim your arrow machines at me, and if I do you any
harm, then that harsh-voiced officer beside you can have me killed
with a single word!’ Her voice hardened commandingly. ‘Shall we
talk?’
Scaurus nodded decisively.
‘The queen has a point. Indeed I doubt that I would have come
anywhere close to these walls, were I in her position.’ He unbuckled
his belt and handed it to Abasi. ‘Here, take my sword and dagger,
and have the bolt throwers ready to shoot if needed. Will you come
with me, Dubnus? You can stand behind me at a suitable distance
with that axe of yours and wonder what it would be like to fight a
spear-armed woman.’
 ‘I hardly need to wonder, as I spar with Ptolemy every day’ – he
continued, ignoring the scribe’s incensed protests – ‘but I will be
happy to come with you, Tribune. And you lot …’ he paused for a
moment to ensure that he had the attention of the ballista crews to
either side, ‘if I do get speared by some mad woman, just you make
sure she pays the right price, eh?’
Walking out across the open ground before the walls that had
been the only barrier between his command and certain destruction,
and with only a fifty-pace circle of illuminated ground, beyond which
was a darkness so complete that the entire Kushite army could have
been within bow shot and been invisible, Scaurus held his silence
until he had reached the spot where Marcus and his companion
awaited him.
‘Your bodyguard does a poor job of looking unthreatening,
Legatus.’
The Roman looked back to see Dubnus leaning on his axe a
dozen paces behind him, the very picture of a man attempting to
look as if violence was the last thing on his mind.
‘By rights he is the man you should be talking to. He’s the son of a
king in his own country, whereas I am merely a minor nobleman by
your frame of reference.’
‘And yet you do command here, and, whatever status you might or
might not enjoy in your own country, here you are, it seems, the
victor. Tell me, how did you persuade the Blemmyes to turn on us?’
Scaurus smiled slowly.
‘You are nobody’s fool, Your Highness. How did you guess?’
‘It wasn’t hard to make the link between your extravagantly
suicidal occupation of this fortress to hold my attention and this
unexpected strike from the desert, by men we believed to be our
allies. What did you promise them, gold?’
‘Yes, but not Rome’s. I simply had an officer of mine point out to
them that if I succeeded in occupying Premnis, then it would act as a
magnet for you and your army. And that a fleet attacker, accustomed
to moving swiftly and quietly in the desert wastes, might find the
back door to your kingdom unguarded. It has long been considered a
strategic weakness of your kingdom that your most holy site, and
former imperial capital, is so far north, and open to attack from either
side of the Nilus.’
Amanirenas nodded slowly.
‘An astute plan. Although were I assessing its likely success, I
could not give more than one chance in two of it succeeding. And yet
here you are, with your head in the noose, waiting for the uncertainty
of alliance with a desert tribe of notorious fickleness to free you. Do
you consider yourself to be lucky, Tribune of Rome?’
‘We make our own luck in this life, Kandake. So tell me, what
terms would you like me to consider?’
The queen stared at the walls of her fortress for a moment, then
spoke again in a tone that told the Romans she knew that she was
beaten.
‘I will remove my army from the port of Berenike and take my full
strength south to deal with these treacherous allies in the manner
they deserve. And in return for my surrendering my prize, you will
vacate this fortress and march north to Souan. And we will both
swear, face to face and on paper in the way that I know you Romans
believe to be sacrosanct, never to repeat either incursion. Souan will
be the meeting point for Rome and Kush, where trade will be carried
out, and Rome’s interests as far south as that city will be guaranteed
for as long as Rome is able to muster the strength to hold Souan
itself.’
Scaurus nodded agreement.
‘A treaty will be required. Fortunately I have an imperial secretary
in my party who will draw such a document up immediately. You will
proclaim this as a victory, I presume?’
‘Of course. As will Rome, I presume?’
‘Undoubtedly. Kings … and indeed queens … and empires, all
need such good news to keep their people believing in the justness
of their rule, do they not?’ Amanirenas nodded her approval. ‘There
is one other small matter to resolve. The Christian man who was
captured on the riverbank along with my centurion here …’
‘Will live. I have had him taken down from the cross that my
treacherous general Tantamani had nailed him to. He may not walk
as easily as he did before, but I will have him carried until such time
as he can stand again, if he chooses to stay with me.’
‘To what purpose would you seek to detain him?’
The queen smiled.
‘Detain? I will not hold him against his will, but nevertheless I
expect that he will come with me to Napata, and then onto Meroë
itself, and gladly. I would learn more of this one god which inspires
such loyalty that a man would willingly allow himself to be nailed to a
cross, to undergo such an excruciating death while still calling out to
his god, even in the most extreme pain. Any army of men so
motivated would be a powerful force. There is a power rising to
Meroë’s south, the kingdom of Aksum, and unlike Tantamani and my
priests, I have long believed it to be the real threat to my kingdom.’
Scaurus nodded slowly.
‘If the Christian wishes to accompany you, I will happily release
him from his service to Rome. But surely your people will regard him
as alien, and shun his beliefs?’
‘We shall see. Who knows, perhaps they will be as intrigued as I
am with his devotion to just one master.’ Amanirenas turned her cool
gaze on Marcus. ‘And you too may accompany me, beloved of the
gods, if it is in your thoughts to be my companion? I think you would
find the experience … enlightening.’
Marcus bowed.
‘Without doubt, Kandake and Queen. You would be the most
magnificent companion a man could desire, and yet I am firstly a
servant of Rome.’
‘And there is a matter yet unfinished for you in Rome, if my priest
read you correctly?’
‘There is. A matter of taking revenge for one I loved who was
mistreated by men of power. I cannot relinquish my hopes to one day
see those men face to face with their destinies.’
‘As you desire, so shall it be. Take this with you, and when your
task of revenge is complete, it will vouchsafe you safe passage to
Meroë, should you seek refuge from pursuit.’ She pulled a thick gold
bracelet from her wrist, tracing the letters embossed into the soft
metal. ‘It bears my name and will be recognised by any royal official
as having belonged to the queen. I will issue an edict that a white
man bearing it is to be escorted to my side without delay. You will
always be welcome in my kingdom, and in my bedchamber, beloved
of the gods.’ The queen turned to Scaurus. ‘Have this treaty we have
negotiated sent to me as soon as it is written, perhaps in the hands
of your centurion here. He can bid your Christian farewell, and
perhaps have one last look at the woman over whom he has chosen
revenge.’
The queen stalked away at the heart of her amazons, and the
Romans watched her until the darkness swallowed up her party.
‘You had the chance of bedding a queen, and you turned it down
to go back to Rome where one of the two men you want to kill
continually plots your death, while the other lives behind an iron ring
of praetorians.’ Dubnus shook his head in disgust. ‘If I ever needed
proof that you’ve taken leave of your senses …’
Ignoring him, Marcus looked at Scaurus with new respect.
‘You gambled a legion on Fabius Turbo’s ability to get the desert-
raiders to turn on their allies? That’s pushing the odds, even for us.’
‘I know.’ The older man nodded wearily. ‘And yet it was the only
way I could see to undo the grip in which the Kandake would
inevitably put us, when she discovered our occupation of this place.’
‘So what now? What is your plan, once the queen has taken her
army south to re-establish her kingdom’s borders?’
‘That’s easy enough. We can return to Alexandria by river, leave
the auxiliaries to garrison Souan and Koptos, and make our way
back to Rome. Doubtless Cleander will be delighted to have his port
on Mare Rubrum back in Roman hands, and to renew the flow of the
river of gold that flows into his capacious purse. I think that some
time in the capital is long overdue before we consider what we might
do next, and who knows, you might just find some way to engineer
some degree of recompense for the wrong that has been done to
you.’ He smiled sadly at Marcus. ‘After all, you are beloved of the
gods, are you not? And everyone knows that the gods’ ability to
tolerate an injustice is not infinite.’

Follow Anthony Riches here

 Historical Note – the Kingdom of Kush

A quite startling amount of research was required for the author to be

able to put together a story set in the Roman province of Aegyptus. I
have over the last ten years become accustomed to not needing to
work all that hard on my knowledge of the late second century. That
was not quite so true this time, however! In the course of the year it
took to write the book, it was necessary to read quite deeply into
areas of ancient history, which variously encompassed the province
itself, which was quite different to the imperial norm; the great world
city of Alexandria; Christianity in the empire; the pyramids; the Red
Sea ports and their trade with what we now call India; and, most
interestingly (to the author, at least), the little-known kingdom of
Kush. Any of these subjects make for interesting reading, and I’ll
recommend some books at the bottom of this note, but it is Kush that
I’ve decided to talk about here.
Historians have belatedly realised that Kush was a major regional
power in the ancient world. One of the longest lived civilisations
anywhere, it was highly developed in terms of civil administration,
religion and culture, long before Rome existed, and predates even
the Greek Archaic period. Its major religious monuments dwarfed
Greek achievements such as the Parthenon and Acropolis, and at its
peak, when its kings ruled Egypt as the 25th Dynasty, their kingdom
stretched as far north as Jerusalem and Tyre. Indeed, Kush helped
to shape Egypt in much the same way that Egypt influenced Kush.
Standing toe to toe with neighbouring powers, Kush managed to
maintain its territorial integrity for a good deal longer than the
Western Roman civilisation lasted, and left a heritage that is
gradually entering mainstream historical awareness.
 Kush – or Meroë, as it was known by the late second century after
the death of Christ – was a power on the edge of decline by the time
of this story, but was also a kingdom with a proud history, and indeed
a much longer existence than that of its main competitor at that time.
Whereas Rome had, according to legend, been founded in the first
half of the previous millennium, some 940 years before, Kush had
already existed for over two and a half thousand years in four quite
distinct guises.
As the kingdom of Kerma, Kush found its first expression as a
unified culture, of sorts, with the earliest urban settlement patterns in
Africa to the south of Egypt, as long ago as the Egyptian Early
Dynastic Period from around 3000 BCE, when Kush and Egypt
began their long, intertwined relationship. By 1700 BCE, the city of
Kerma was home to 10,000 people, with major buildings, palaces,
granaries and storehouses, and miles of canals, all protected by a
defensive wall system, and its people were already prolific traders
over long distances. After a period of domination by Egypt in Lower
(northern) Nubia the power of the pharaohs waned, and Kerma went
on the offensive, but this only served to harden Egypt’s resolve, and
the kingdom was invaded and conquered, its king displayed hanging
from the mast of the pharaoh’s flagship as he sailed back to the
north. Becoming increasingly Egyptianised over hundreds of years,
inevitable in a lengthy occupation, the people of Kush nevertheless
retained enough independence to re-establish their own kingdom
when the Egyptian New Kingdom collapsed in 1075 BCE. And it was
from this point that Kush began its rise to greatness.
By 750 BCE, a Kushite king by the name of Kashta had invaded
Upper (southern) Egypt and captured Thebes, and his successor
Piye went on to finish the job and capture the entire length of the Nile
Valley. The so-called ‘Black Pharaohs’ ruled both Egypt and Kush as
the 25th Dynasty, seeing themselves as maintaining the classic
Egyptian culture and religion in the pharaonic tradition. With a wider
influence than just the area of their new domain, they took tribute
from Levantine trading states and competed militarily with the
Assyrian Empire, but their evident territorial and political ambitions
were to lead to disaster. In 671 BCE the Assyrians, having been
bested in battle more than once against the Kushite king Taharqa,
broke a thirty-year losing streak against the now ageing ruler,
invaded Egypt and sacked his northern capital, Memphis. His
successor’s brief recapture of the kingdom’s northern territory was in
vain, and the Assyrians advanced to capture Thebes in the south,
and may even have penetrated as far south as the holy city of
Napata. It is in this period that the centre of gravity of Kushite
authority began to centre more on Meroë, to the south, and Kushite
culture began to become more African in nature.
The Assyrians were succeeded by the Persians, ruled by Cyrus
the Great, but his successors were unsuccessful in their efforts to
take Kush, overcome, it seems, by the triple scourge of the huge
distances involved, the desert’s inhospitable nature and the Kushite
army’s ability to resist. As was often the way in such a stalemate,
Kush and Persia exchanged gifts and made peace, with Persian
silver being found in elite Kushite burials and ‘Aethiopians’ serving in
Xerxes’ invasion of Greece in 480 BCE. Kush, meanwhile, continued
to exist despite external pressures, combining Egyptian tradition with
their own culture, religion, writing, architecture, aesthetics, trading
methods and military organisation, and by 330 BCE had
consolidated its grip on southern Egypt as far north as Aswan. It was
at some point in this period that the seat of governance formally
moved south from Napata to the less vulnerable Meroë, where it was
to remain until the kingdom’s fall.
Initially ejected from southern Egypt by the resurgent Ptolemaic
Egypt, ruled by the descendants of Ptolemy, the king who had arisen
from the Macedonian leadership with the death of Alexander the
Great (who had conquered Egypt and founded Alexandria), relations
between the two great states normalised into cooperation, with joint
hunting expeditions in search of war elephants on the steppe to the
south of Meroë, and Kush became somewhat Hellenised in the
process, just as did Egypt to an even greater degree. But, by 200
BCE, the Ptolemaic kingdom had declined so far that Rome, seeing
an opportunity, stepped in to prop up the failing state and secure the
valuable grain supply. It was an inevitability that, in the fullness of
time, the first emperor, Augustus, would declare its annexation as his
own province, to be governed by his chosen representative in order
to safeguard this critical role as Rome’s breadbasket. In the process
of securing the province, Rome re-established control of the long
disputed area of southern Egypt, land which had been Kush’s for a
century, with the unwelcome effect for Kush of depriving its southern
neighbour of lucrative tax income, and setting the scene for the war
to come.
As evidenced by the Res Gestae Divi Augusti (the Deeds of the
Divine Augustus), the emperor’s funerary inscription which detailed
his illustrious achievements, a war duly took place, with Rome
deeming itself victorious over enemies in both Ethiopia and Arabia –
although the reality was a little more nuanced than the simple
statement that ‘very large forces of the enemy of both races were cut
to pieces in battle and many towns were captured’. In his book
Geography, the contemporary scholar Strabo recorded the events of
the Kushite-Roman war, which in simple terms were these: the
Kushite king Teriteqas invaded Upper Egypt in 27 BCE, taking
border towns and pulling down statues of Augustus wherever they
were to be found, a grave insult and clear signal of intent. Rome
counter-attacked with, it seems, only ten thousand men to face thirty
thousand Kushites, but these were battle-hardened legionaries fresh
from the civil war that had put Augustus on the throne; their
equipment and tactics were probably also superior to those of their
enemies, in addition to their high level of motivation and experience.
They sacked Napata, the Kushite holy city, and both the king and his
son Prince Akinidad were killed at some point in the campaign. His
wife, the Queen Amanirenas, took up the fight with vigour, pursuing
the withdrawing Romans back to Premnis, a fortified hill-top city
which has (just) barely survived the flooding brought about by the
Aswan dam. A stalemate resulted from the Roman use of massed
legion artillery to cancel out the Kushite numerical advantage on the
empty ground before the fortress, and Augustus’s general Petronius,
probably acting on orders from above, sent a diplomatic party from
Kush north under escort to meet with the emperor on the island
Samos. The resulting peace terms seem to have been highly
generous to Kush, perhaps understandably so given Augustus’s
need to end the war and avoid being forced to fight on too many
fronts. Rome and Kush chose to co-exist, and even became military
allies to some degree, and the presence of a trade-hungry neighbour
seems to have invigorated Kush for some time. Intriguingly, however,
while most of the statues of the emperor which had been taken were
returned, at least one was not, its head (now in the British Museum)
being buried under the steps of a temple in Meroë in perpetual insult
and defiance, to be discovered almost two thousand years later.
Meroë was still close to the peak of its magnificence at this time,
the city’s crops irrigated by the Nile and bordered by forests, a
classical city whose broad thoroughfares were lined with statues, but
the seeds of its downfall had already been planted. The deathblow
came not from the north, the traditional source of competition, but
from the south. Around 330 CE, Kush’s southern neighbour, the
kingdom of Axum, invaded and sacked Meroë, a blow that would
leave it deserted within twenty years, but even before this (and
probably at the root of the weakness that allowed such an invasion),
Kush had been approaching the end of its sustainability. Its forests
denuded by the amount of wood needed to create charcoal and fuel
the iron industry, its fields overgrazed and over cropped, the city had
already been at significant risk of collapse. Intriguingly, it was during
this period of decline that the religion which the kingdom had shared
with Egypt began to face competition from the upstart faith that was
sweeping the ancient world around the Mediterranean, Christianity.
Whether this was a factor in the fall of Kush is impossible to say,
although the collective opinion is that Kush’s successor, Axum,
became Christianised from the fourth century onwards, and such
religious disruption might have been a factor in Kush’s slide into
disaster.
After centuries of scholarly neglect, and indeed some racism in the
historical writing of previous centuries – such as statements that the
amazing pyramids of Napata and Meroë (sadly despoiled, in some
cases with explosives, by Europeans in search of burial treasure in
the late nineteenth century) must have been built by ‘whiter’ North
Africans – the kingdom of Kush is emerging into general
consciousness of the ancient world. I can thoroughly commend
those interested to read into the depth of knowledge available with
regard to this vibrant regional empire. A unique polity that underwent
several phases of existence, variously conquered and conqueror,
with distinct religion, culture and trade, well known to and respected
by its neighbours, it is very much worth knowing more about.
Recommended reading on the subject has to include the following
amazing web page (and yes, I realise that this is a hostage to fortune
given it might not exist in years to come) –
https://wildfiregames.com/forum/index.php?/topic/21602-the-
kingdom-of-kush-a-proper-introduction-illustrated/ – if you can be
bothered to type all that in, I promise you that the page, for as long
as it exists, is a visual and historical treat. Its author, Malcolm
Quartey, has done a truly magnificent job of providing not only
wargamers but also the rest of us with the most magnificent – and
stupendously compendious – account of Kush’s history, complete
with illustrations. Just read it, you’ll thank me! And if you’re looking
for a book on the subject, try The Kingdom of Kush: Handbook of the
Napatan-Meroitic Civilization, by László Török.
If you’d like to know more about Christianity in the Roman world,
then I can recommend The Christians as the Romans Saw Them by
Robert Louis Wilken, and The Darkening Age – The Christian
Destruction of the Classical World by Catherine Nixey is quite an
eye-opener on the subject of the way that the new religion literally
changed the world.
And if you’re curious about Roman Egypt I’d point you to The
Oxford Handbook of Roman Egypt, edited by Christina Riggs, while
Soldier and Society in Roman Egypt by Richard Alston digs deeply
into how the Roman army was a fundamental part of the province’s
governance.
 The Roman Army in AD 182

By the late second century, the point at which the Empire series
begins, the Imperial Roman Army had long since evolved into a
stable organisation with a stable modus operandi. Thirty or so
legions (there’s still some debate about the Ninth Legion’s fate),
each with an official strength of 5,500 legionaries, formed the army’s
165,000-man heavy infantry backbone, while 360 or so auxiliary
cohorts (each of them the rough equivalent of a 600-man infantry
battalion) provided another 217,000 soldiers for the empire’s
defence.
Positioned mainly in the empire’s border provinces, these forces
performed two main tasks. Whilst ostensibly providing a strong
means of defence against external attack, their role was just as
much about maintaining Roman rule in the most challenging of the
empire’s subject territories. It was no coincidence that the
troublesome provinces of Britannia and Dacia were deemed to
require 60 and 44 auxiliary cohorts respectively, almost a quarter of
the total available. It should be noted, however, that whilst their
overall strategic task was the same, the terms under which the two
halves of the army served were quite different.
The legions, the primary Roman military unit for conducting
warfare at the operational or theatre level, had been in existence
since early in the republic, hundreds of years before. They were
composed mainly of close-order heavy infantry, well-drilled and
highly motivated, recruited on a professional basis and, critically to
an understanding of their place in Roman society, manned by
soldiers who were Roman citizens. The jobless poor were thus
provided with a route to a valuable trade, since service with the
legions was as much about construction – fortresses, roads and
even major defensive works such as Hadrian’s Wall – as destruction.
Vitally for the maintenance of the empire’s borders, this
attractiveness of service made a large standing field army a
possibility, and allowed for both the control and defence of the
conquered territories.
By this point in Britannia’s history three legions were positioned to
control the restive peoples both beyond and behind the province’s
borders. These were the 2nd, based in South Wales, the 20th,
watching North Wales, and the 6th, positioned to the east of the
Pennine range and ready to respond to any trouble on the northern
frontier. Each of these legions was commanded by a legatus, an
experienced man of senatorial rank deemed worthy of the
responsibility and appointed by the emperor. The command structure
beneath the legatus was a delicate balance, combining the
requirement for training and advancing Rome’s young aristocrats for
their future roles with the necessity for the legion to be led into battle
by experienced and hardened officers.
Directly beneath the legatus were a half-dozen or so military
tribunes, one of them a young man of the senatorial class called the
broad stripe tribune after the broad senatorial stripe on his tunic. This
relatively inexperienced man – it would have been his first official
position – acted as the legion’s second-in-command, despite being a
relatively tender age when compared with the men around him. The
remainder of the military tribunes were narrow stripes, men of the
equestrian class who usually already had some command
experience under their belts from leading an auxiliary cohort.
Intriguingly, since the more experienced narrow-stripe tribunes
effectively reported to the broad stripe, such a reversal of the usual
military conventions around fitness for command must have made
for some interesting man-management situations. The legion’s third
in command was the camp prefect, an older and more experienced
soldier, usually a former centurion deemed worthy of one last role in
the legion’s service before retirement, usually for one year. He would
by necessity have been a steady hand, operating as the voice of
experience in advising the legion’s senior officers as to the realities
of warfare and the management of the legion’s soldiers.
 Reporting into this command structure were ten cohorts of
soldiers, each one composed of a number of eighty-man centuries.
Each century was a collection of ten tent parties – eight men who
literally shared a tent when out in the field. Nine of the cohorts had
six centuries, and an establishment strength of 480 men, whilst the
prestigious first cohort, commanded by the legion’s senior centurion,
was composed of five double-strength centuries and therefore
fielded 800 soldiers when fully manned. This organisation provided
the legion with its cutting edge: 5,000 or so well-trained heavy
infantrymen operating in regiment and company-sized units, and led
by battle-hardened officers, the legion’s centurions, men whose
position was usually achieved by dint of their demonstrated
leadership skills.
The rank of centurion was pretty much the peak of achievement
for an ambitious soldier, commanding an eighty-man century and
paid ten times as much as the men each officer commanded. Whilst
the majority of centurions were promoted from the ranks, some were
appointed from above as a result of patronage, or as a result of
having completed their service in the Praetorian Guard, which had a
shorter period of service than the legions. That these externally
imposed centurions would have undergone their very own ‘sink or
swim’ moment in dealing with their new colleagues is an unavoidable
conclusion, for the role was one that by necessity led from the front,
and as a result suffered disproportionate casualties. This makes it
highly likely that any such appointee felt unlikely to make the grade
in action would have received very short shrift from his brother
officers.
A small but necessarily effective team reported to the centurion.
The optio, literally ‘best’ or chosen man, was his second-in-
command, and stood behind the century in action with a long brass-
knobbed stick, literally pushing the soldiers into the fight should the
need arise. This seems to have been a remarkably efficient way of
managing a large body of men, given the centurion’s place alongside
rather than behind his soldiers, and the optio would have been a cool
head, paid twice the usual soldier’s wage and a candidate for
promotion to centurion if he performed well. The century’s third-in-
command was the tesserarius or watch officer, ostensibly charged
with ensuring that sentries were posted and that everyone know the
watch word for the day, but also likely to have been responsible for
the profusion of tasks such as checking the soldiers’ weapons and
equipment, ensuring the maintenance of discipline and so on, that
have occupied the lives of junior non-commissioned officers
throughout history in delivering a combat-effective unit to their officer.
The last member of the centurion’s team was the century’s signifer,
the standard bearer, who both provided a rallying point for the
soldiers and helped the centurion by transmitting marching orders to
them through movements of his standard. Interestingly, he also
functioned as the century’s banker, dealing with the soldiers’
financial affairs. While a soldier caught in the horror of battle might
have thought twice about defending his unit’s standard, he might well
also have felt a stronger attachment to the man who managed his
money for him!
At the shop-floor level were the eight soldiers of the tent party who
shared a leather tent and messed together, their tent and cooking
gear carried on a mule when the legion was on the march. Each tent
party would inevitably have established its own pecking order based
upon the time-honoured factors of strength, aggression, intelligence
– and the rough humour required to survive in such a harsh world.
The men that came to dominate their tent parties would have been
the century’s unofficial backbone, candidates for promotion to watch
officer. They would also have been vital to their tent mates’ cohesion
under battlefield conditions, when the relatively thin leadership team
could not always exert sufficient presence to inspire the individual
soldier to stand and fight amid the horrific chaos of combat.
The other element of the legion was a small 120-man detachment
of cavalry, used for scouting and the carrying of messages between
units. The regular army depended on auxiliary cavalry wings, drawn
from those parts of the empire where horsemanship was a way of
life, for their mounted combat arm. Which leads us to consider the
other side of the army’s two-tier system.
The auxiliary cohorts, unlike the legions alongside which they
fought, were not Roman citizens, although the completion of a
twenty-five-year term of service did grant both the soldier and his
children citizenship. The original auxiliary cohorts had often served in
their homelands, as a means of controlling the threat of large
numbers of freshly conquered barbarian warriors, but this changed
after the events of the first century AD. The Batavian revolt in
particular – when the 5,000-strong Batavian cohorts rebelled and
destroyed two Roman legions after suffering intolerable provocation
during a recruiting campaign gone wrong – was the spur for the
Flavian policy for these cohorts to be posted away from their home
provinces. The last thing any Roman general wanted was to find his
legions facing an army equipped and trained to fight in the same
way. This is why the reader will find the auxiliary cohorts described in
the Empire series, true to the historical record, representing a variety
of other parts of the empire, including Tungria, which is now part of
modern-day Belgium.
Auxiliary infantry was equipped and organised in so close a
manner to the legions that the casual observer would have been
hard put to spot the differences. Often their armour would be mail,
rather than plate, sometimes weapons would have minor differences,
but in most respects an auxiliary cohort would be the same
proposition to an enemy as a legion cohort. Indeed there are hints
from history that the auxiliaries may have presented a greater
challenge on the battlefield. At the battle of Mons Graupius in
Scotland, Tacitus records that four cohorts of Batavians and two of
Tungrians were sent in ahead of the legions and managed to defeat
the enemy without requiring any significant assistance. Auxiliary
cohorts were also often used on the flanks of the battle line, where
reliable and well drilled troops are essential to handle attempts to
outflank the army. And while the legions contained soldiers who were
as much tradesmen as fighting men, the auxiliary cohorts were
primarily focused on their fighting skills. By the end of the second
century there were significantly more auxiliary troops serving the
empire than were available from the legions, and it is clear that
Hadrian’s Wall would have been invalid as a concept without the
mass of infantry and mixed infantry/cavalry cohorts that were
stationed along its length.
 As for horsemen, the importance of the empire’s 75,000 or so
auxiliary cavalrymen, capable of much faster deployment and
manoeuvre than the infantry, and essential for successful scouting,
fast communications and the denial of reconnaissance information to
the enemy, cannot be overstated. Rome simply did not produce
anything like the strength in mounted troops needed to avoid being
at a serious disadvantage against those nations which by their
nature were cavalry-rich. As a result, as each such nation was
conquered their mounted forces were swiftly incorporated into the
army until, by the early first century BC, the decision was made to
disband what native Roman cavalry as there was altogether, in
favour of the auxiliary cavalry wings.
Named for their usual place on the battlefield, on the flanks or
‘wings’ of the line of battle, the cavalry cohorts were commanded by
men of the equestrian class with prior experience as legion military
tribunes, and were organised around the basic 32-man turma, or
squadron. Each squadron was commanded by a decurion, a position
analogous with that of the infantry centurion. This officer was
assisted by a pair of junior officers: the duplicarius or double-pay,
equivalent to the role of optio, and the sesquipilarius or pay-and-a-
half, equal in stature to the infantry watch officer. As befitted the
cavalry’s more important military role, each of these ranks was paid
about 40 per cent more than the infantry equivalent.
Taken together, the legions and their auxiliary support presented a
standing army of over 400,000 men by the time of the events
described in the Empire series. Whilst this was sufficient to both hold
down and defend the empire’s 6.5 million square kilometres for a
long period of history, the strains of defending a 5,000-kilometre-long
frontier, beset on all sides by hostile tribes, were also beginning to
manifest themselves. The prompt move to raise three new legions
undertaken by the new emperor Septimius Severus in AD 197, in
readiness for over a decade spent shoring up the empire’s crumbling
borders, provides clear evidence that there were never enough
legions and cohorts for such a monumental task. This is the
backdrop for the Empire series, which will run from AD 192 well into
the early third century, following both the empire’s and Marcus
Valerius Aquila’s travails throughout this fascinatingly brutal period of
history.
 Betrayal: The Centurions I

 
Rome, AD 68.

One hundred years of imperial rule by the descendants of Julius

Caesar has ended, and chaos rules.

Buy Betrayal, the first title in Anthony Riches’ The Centurions

series now
 Table of Contents
Contents
About the Author
By the same author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Map
How to Use this eBook
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Historical Note – the Kingdom of Kush
The Roman Army in AD 182