Libertas
Munda, Hispania Ulterior
51 BC (703 AUC)
ONE
I knew from the look in his eyes that he wanted to kill me.
He advanced deliberately, his weight perfectly balanced, his wooden shield held
to chin height. He made short stabbing gestures with his rusting sword, and
hissed like a snake about to strike. But it was the coldness in his dark eyes
that made me step back.
Around me the sounds of sword drill clattered and crashed,
with grunts and curses, even laughter – that would be Senny who never saw the
serious side of learning basic soldiery. But these all faded to the edge of my
senses now as Arsay advanced.
I barely managed to adjust the cumbersome shield to take the
first blow as his sword swept downwards, the force of it juddering through my
forearm and wrenching my shoulder, throwing me off balance. Another step back.
Arsay grimaced in a twisted half smile as he freed his sword, which had bitten
into the soft, chipped wood of my crude shield.
‘A man is most vulnerable in the moment his blade strikes
your shield,’ Dracus had repeatedly told us, ‘so you must strike immediately.
No matter how hard the blow, throw your weight forward and thrust to groin, rib
or neck.’ Dracus, our trainer – a squat, muscular and scarred Roman veteran –
had shown us the wounding places beneath and around the breastplate, and we had
given a collective gasp when his armourer had handed out real swords, the
points blunted and the edges filed and softened. ‘It’s time to get used to the
weight and feel of real weapons,’ Dracus had announced, his voice a soldier’s
growl. ‘We have men younger than some of you in our legions, now show me what
you have learned.’
But I didn’t throw my weight forward and the lesson had fled
from my mind. Arsay’s next blow was to the side but my shield arm was leaden,
sharp pains shooting through my shoulder, and I could not move the heavy shield
nor think of anything but retreat. The blunted sword hammered into the padded
leather protecting my ribs, and I doubled up with a grunt. The pain brought
tears to my eyes. Stupidly, hopelessly, I turned my head to where I had last
heard Dracus give the command to engage, a forlorn appeal forming on my lips,
presenting Arsay with he easiest of targets. He smashed his shield into the
side of my face. There was a flash, like white sheet lightning, followed by a
strange whistling noise in my head as I toppled backwards to sit on the hard
earth.
Slowly, the world came back into focus. First Arsay’s
sandaled feet, streaked with the training ground’s dust, then the form of my
bigger, stronger opponent who stood over me, a triumphant expression on his
face. He was still hissing like a madman, twitching his head repeatedly to
flick rebellious black hair from his eyes, his lips taut in an annoying smile
of victory. The whistling noise stopped abruptly, the sounds of battle
returning, and I felt the weight of my unused sword in my hand, tightening my
grip on the hilt as anger surged dizzyingly behind my eyes.
The anger gave me strength and speed. I swung the heavy
blade without thinking, twisting my body to give the sweeping blow more force
as the blunt edge found Arsay’s ankle with a satisfying crunch. He let out a high-pitched
yelp and collapsed in front of me, dropping sword and shield as he clutched at
the pain where I had struck the decisive blow. I stood, overcoming the dull
ache that throbbed in my head, kicked his sword aside and looked down at him.
His eyes were watering and for a moment I thought he might cry, but Arsay’s
reputation among the youth of our town, and that of his elder brother Dagan,
was built on the kind of brutish prowess that masks their callow ignorance. He
spat curses at me through clenched teeth.
I looked over to Dracus, uncertain what to do next. With an
amused expression, the trainer was slowly shaking his head in disbelief. The
other boys continued their banal swordplay, and I realised that none of them
was putting much effort into the drill. Senny, still laughing, was paired with
Lizard who was living up to his nick-name by darting to and fro, bobbing his
head in mock challenge, more like a dancer than a soldier.
‘Enough,’ called Dracus, his small black eyes still watching
me where I stood over Arsay. Instantly, the drill ceased, all heads turning
expectantly to the trainer who now circled us with the stiff strides intended
to emphasise his authority but which we all found so comical and often mimicked
behind his back. Arsay was struggling to his feet, unable to put any weight on
his injured ankle. I offered a hand, but he angrily swatted it away, still
cursing.
‘You fight like girls,’ Dracus snarled, striding to the
centre of the training ground, picking up Arsay’s sword as he passed us.
‘Except for these two,’ he turned and looked from Arsay to me, ‘who seem to
forget that they are on the same side, or would be if I could enlist any of you
in a Roman legion.’
For a moment he studied me, as if looking for some
understanding of the inner person, then he snorted. I think he attempted a
smile, but his cruel lips were hidden by thick, black stubble and his
expression looked more like a scowl. I tried to smile back but winced at the
sharp pain spreading through my cheek and neck. I could taste blood inside my
mouth where Arsay’s blow had crushed the soft flesh against my teeth.
‘Melqart here would be dead of course, if his fight had been
with sharpened swords. Why? Because he took a step back even before Arsay
struck, and then he hesitated when his first opportunity came. The rest of you
seemed intent on tickling each other, not practicing the moves I taught you…’
Arsay took no comfort in that. He had not taken his eyes
from me while Dracus spoke; there was hatred there, like a surging, destructive
force that I could almost touch. It was a darkness that had been growing for
some years, subtly at first, then swelling like the grumbling thunderstorms
that prowl among our mountains. I returned his gaze, uncertain how to meet the
evil in him. Lizard had been right when he warned me to keep my distance from
Arsay and his brother.
‘… Take your weapons to the cart for return to the armoury,’
Dracus was saying, ‘and young Arsay, you can ride too as it looks like your
ankle will need some attention.’ Arsay looked as if he was about to object, but
Dracus had turned on his heels, his command final.
+ + +
‘What happened to your face?’ Lizard asked as we walked home
through the olive groves to Munda’s main gate. ‘Quite an improvement I reckon.’
I gave him a playful push, the muscles in my injured shoulder protesting.
‘Arsay was in a bad mood.’ I wanted to say more but my jaw
felt like it had been kicked by the mule that was drawing the weapons cart
behind us.
‘But you had him down in the end…?’
‘Just lucky. Got him right on the point of his ankle.’
‘Good. Might bring him down a peg or two.’
I looked back to where Arsay sat on the old cart, a loose
wheel giving it an ignominious lurch with each revolution, causing the mule to
look even more ungainly than usual. Arsay was watching me with undisguised
venom, so I turned back to Lizard, trying to put the image out of my mind.
‘I don’t know which is worse, Dracus’s bark or Arsay’s
bite,’ I speculated.
‘Give me Dracus every time,’ Lizard laughed, ‘at least you
know where you are with him.’ A cleft palate gave Lizard a perpetual grimace,
the cause of remorseless teasing throughout his childhood, but I admired the
way he had never taken their cruel words to heart. We had enjoyed an easy
friendship as we had grown into teenage years – I the more studious and
serious, Lizard ever the joker with a boundless energy. He was comfortable with
his nickname, which no one questioned as it was so apt. Only Lizard’s parents
knew what his real name was.
We walked in silence toward the old wooden gate, always open
because the rusted hinges no longer worked, the wood bleached and twisted by
the summer sun, held up only by the forlorn remains of palisades clinging
desperately to each other, serving no defensive purpose for a town that welcomed
travellers and foreigners, even Romans. With defences that had been breached by
goats, dogs and children, nobody in Munda had a mind to fight off strangers,
most of whom were traders seeking olive oil, herbs, spices and smoked hams, or
Romans who kept their weapons sheathed and enjoyed the town’s surprisingly
civilised hospitality.
Including Julius Caesar himself.
The man lauded by my Latin tutor as the conqueror of Gaul
and the most famous man in the world had once visited Munda. Nine years
earlier, when I was a child of five, he had ridden into Munda’s wide valley at
the head of a century and decided that this insignificant, peace-loving little
town was the perfect strategic place for his new Procurator to live. He had
given us Lucius Marcellus, or had he given Munda to Lucius Marcellus? Either
way, the townsfolk didn’t mind one bit because the Procurator was a genial war
veteran who had served under Pompey the Great (as famous as Caesar, my tutor
said, his enthusiasm disguising the contradiction) and as soon as he had built
a lavish villa for his family, had ordered the construction of drains, sewers
and open baths fed by the perpetual springs that give Munda its soul. And the
start of a new road north to Lacibis and south to the sea. Yes, there were taxes
to pay for the civilisation of Munda, but there was work for idle hands and
with a few exceptions a hearty backslap for the Procurator for making Munda’s
paradise look and smell more like paradise. Julius Caesar had come to impose a
Procurator, and had made his interference seem like a generous gift. The people
liked Lucius Marcellus. Perhaps next he would have us build a new wall and new
gates.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of my name being
shouted in desperation.
‘Pito! Pito!’
My nickname, a shortened version of Agapito, which means
“little loved one” in the old tongue. In truth, I prefer it to Melqart, the
ancient god after whom I was named.
It was my sister Pidray, running through a gap in the
dilapidated palisade, raising a dust storm, her long black hair careening from
side to side.
‘Looks like your pretty little sister,’ observed Lizard.
Three years my junior, Pidray was not yet a woman but neither was she a little
girl. I ignored the reference to her undoubted beauty as a feeling of unease
came over me, sensing Pidray’s panic. I ran towards her. I could see she was
crying.
Pidray put her hands on her knees as much to steady her
shaking legs as to bend to draw breath, unable to speak as she sucked in the
hot, dusty air. Her long hair fell across her face, so I gently took her
shoulders and coaxed her upright, looking into large brown eyes wet with tears.
‘What is it, Piddy? What’s the matter?’
She buried her tear-streaked face in my chest, managing to
mumble something incoherent between deep sobs, so I again took her shoulders
and looked into her eyes.
‘It’s Baku,’ she managed.
‘What about Baku?’ I couldn’t help but fear the worst. ‘Is
he…’
Pidray nodded, biting her lower lip hard as if physical pain
would dissipate her anguish. She sniffed, and took a deep breath that sounded
more like a sigh.
‘Yes Pito. Baku’s dead.’ For the second time that day my
head swam and the whistling noise returned like a tormenting demon.
Pidray looked at me through tearful eyes.
‘Papa needs you,’ she said thickly. ‘Come quickly.’
My grandfather was the last of Munda’s Warrior-Priests, but
he was neither warrior nor priest. Baku was our affectionate nickname – his
real name was Ciro, and he was not a warrior because he did not even own a
sword, and under his long years of paternal care Munda never needed anyone to
wield one in defence or attack. He was a priest only in the sense that he could
resolve disputes and heal troubled souls with gentle words. He did not believe
in the gods, or at least was never heard to speak of them, or blame them for
the hard times as most people do. His wife, Delphi, my grandmother, was a woman
who could nag and gossip with the best of them but even she had never been able
to penetrate the old man’s aura of composure or deflate his generous spirit.
Baku was the last of the Warrior-Priests because Caesar,
then Governor of all Hispania, had imposed a new, higher level of authority on
our humble community. His Procurator had sole authority to turn Munda into a
model Roman town. This did not worry my unhurried grandfather in the slightest,
or my father Hann, even though he showed all the qualities necessary to be the
most likely successor as Warrior-Priest, senior elder, or whatever Procurator
Lucius Marcellus might want in a community spokesman. Neither Baku nor my
father was the least bit interested in titles or self-importance; in fact Hann
had let his views be known that he did not want any high office whether nominal
or active, and would prefer to continue to be Munda’s best and only baker.
Nothing more, nothing less. The only person who had bridled at Caesar’s conceit
had been Arsay’s father Neran who, perceiving that his opportunity would come
with Ciro’s inevitable passing, had set his heart on becoming the next
Warrior-Priest and had even been known to canvass support among the more
gullible townsfolk. It was a long and fruitless campaign.
Neran had shifty eyes and his head was strangely shaped, like a wolf’s. He was small with a midriff bulge fed by the unpredictable ales that emerged from the evil-smelling barns of Tanasus the Brewer on the edge of town. Quite how he produced two tall, athletic and skilled brawlers like Arsay and his brother Dagan was beyond the understanding of Munda’s gossiping womenfolk, but then they could see plenty of Neran’s cruelty and greed in both boys. Fortunately, Neran’s campaigning fell on deaf ears – there could not be a greater contrast between Baku’s gentle intelligence and wit, and Neran’s boorish egotism.
But in any case, the wolf-man never got his chance, because Caesar came to Munda and changed the rules. The grand title of Warrior-Priest was no longer necessary in a town that was being steadily Romanised. Neither was there need for a council of elders, the grey and toothless ancients venerated by everyone except their women. Rome’s new order gave them no option but to retire to the shade of a huge fig tree in Munda’s square, where the mountain spring played its hypnotic music, there to discuss the merits of Tanasus’s ales and complain about the heat.
Baku, though, was not one for idling away the day. He was my
hero, Warrior-Priest or not, who tirelessly gave me the benefit of his wisdom
in tracking wild boar, studying the eagles when they hunted rabbits and snakes,
and making contraptions in his ramshackle tool shed – wheels and axles, levers
that could lift impossible weights, even models of great war machines that
could hurl a bread roll clean through the kitchen window, causing the old maid
to shout and curse and my mother to chuckle uncontrollably.
Baku adored my mother, Adela, and adored every child she
bore as if the new life she brought into the world gave him more strength, more
love. And Adela adored him back, the more so with each new baby – Pidray, then
my other sister Tallay, then little Elvir who arrived with clenched fists and a
wail that announced that he wanted to be the warrior Baku never was.
But now Baku was gone.
He had been mending a wheel. Eshmun the Cheesemaker had
mentioned to my grandfather that his cart had a broken wheel, and Baku had
insisted on taking the broken pieces to his workshop, waving away Eshmun’s
protests, knowing that if Eshmun was pleased, a fine cheese would be on the
table that night, the perfect accompaniment for my father’s fresh bread and a
flagon of wine from the cellar. Baku was hammering the last rivet through the
iron band, closing the circle, completing everything he had promised, when he
left. Adela had brought him a cup of pomegranate juice and he nodded to her to
place it on the workbench, expressed his thanks with a genuine chuckle, and
died. He just slumped over the mended wheel, a life that had gone full circle.
At first, my mother thought he was just resting his chin on the wheel, which
for some reason didn’t fall over. Then, worried that he wasn’t moving, she
touched him on the shoulder. He slid to the ground and lay still, crumpled,
gone. Adela felt for a heart beat, and listened for a breath.
But Baku wasn’t there any more.