Empress & Soldier: Chapter 5
In which Druisius attends a boar hunt.
SNOW. I CAN tell from the light. I swear, silently. Marcellus still sleeps. Command weighs on him, more than he admits. I slide out of bed to add wood to the brazier. The letter is still on the table. It came yesterday, with a parcel. Supply carts brought them. From Marcellus’s wife. His children have a tutor now, he told us. The boy is learning Heræcrian. Seven years old.
“He was four when I saw him last.” Marcellus and Tarquin were playing xache. I played the cithar. We pass many evenings this way. The commander’s tent is large, with a table for maps and plans.
“What’s in the parcel?” Tarquin asked.
“Socks. I need them, in this cold.”
“We can go home in the spring.” Tarquin said.
“You think?”
“Yes. Our work here will be done. The pass will be fortified. Casil’s not leaving you—or me—up in these barbaric mountains to watch over a traders’ pass.” He grinned, I remember. “That’ll be for some disgraced captain, my friend, not you.”
Marcellus did not touch me later, in the bed now wide enough for us both. His mind was on his family. I understand, although it brings a small ache, inside.
I push aside the tent flap, look out. Sunrise brightens the eastern sky. The clouds are thin. Good. Maybe the snow will melt.
“Druisius.” I let the flap fall back into place. I know that tone. His family is not what is on his mind now. Morning brings needs to be met.
I dress and fetch breakfast. We eat at the table. The letter is gone. I remember last night’s talk. “Where will you be sent next?” I ask. I am freer now with my questions, after three years. When we are alone, or with Tarquin.
“No idea.” He drinks the tea of steeped berries, puts down the cup. “Wherever the higher-ups think I can be useful.”
“And me?” When the Boranoi retreated, the general ordered four cohorts of men to stay behind. Guards and patrols, so Tarquin and his men could build the wall. Marcellus to command, the Casilani cohorts and the Qipërtani, too. An honour for a young captain, he told me.
My sergeant was chosen to stay. He had fought here before, like Vinicius. The senior officers saw his experience, and the discipline he keeps. They did not know he hates Marcellus.
Or did they? Maybe more than one test for my captain, up in these mountains.
“What do you think?” Marcellus says. He grins. “I’ve no desire to train another aide.”
“And Tarquin?”
Marcellus shrugs. “Wherever there’s something that needs building.” He stretches. “He’d like to go west.”
I have heard them talk of this, evenings. Once, Tarquin says, Casil ruled far to the west. Built roads and towns and bridges. He thinks some might still stand, wants to look for them.
“What happened?” I ask, one time.
“Disease,” Tarquin says. “A fever. It killed thousands. More than thousands. Casil had no choice but to pull back from those lands, abandon them. If anyone survived, west of Sylana, it can’t be many.”
“Varos,” Marcellus says now. “Isn’t he your father’s patron?”
I tell him yes. “He’s been appointed Prince Philitos’s tutor, my wife says.” I remember the shelves of books in his office. But a tutor? The prince is not much younger than me. I say this to Marcellus.
“It’s different for him,” he says. “He’ll have men to teach and advise him well into his twenties. Logic, rhetoric, history, strategy—all the things emperors must master.”
“Varos knows all these things?”
“The first three. Maybe not strategy. They’ll find a retired general for that. Someone else for finances, trade, taxes.”
“A lot for the prince, yes?”
“Yes. And he is expected to be proficient with a sword, and ride well.” Marcellus stands. “And play an instrument.” He grins. “I’ll wager you’re better than him in two of those.”
“And you in all three.” He laughs. But it is almost certainly true. My captain has many talents. Today he has the records from the supply wagons to check against what was ordered, and to sign requisitions. His subaltern will assist.
I finish the morning tasks. The creak of heavily-laden carts tells me men are about the day’s work. I cannot be late to the training field. Snow or not, we will drill. An hour, every morning, the Qipërtani troops and Casil’s. In case the Boranoi watch, and so we do not become soft.
The snow means the quarry carts slide on the stones of the road. The mules baulk, men shout. There is little left to do at the wall. Tarquin thought they might be finished today. Then, he says, they will build a proper house for him and Marcellus. For half a winter? But there will be another captain here, after.
I reach the training field on time. The sergeant glares, but he can say nothing. But when we are done, he sends me for wood. He gives me the tasks he gives the Qipërtani. Men who bring wood and water do not merit promotion. Only when the Boranoi threaten do I join the guards and patrols.
After the winters and Tarquin’s buildings, we must go further for wood. Down the slope a thousand paces, more. I check the edge on the axes, the saws for loose handles and rust. Somehow I have become responsible for this. The other men chat while I work.
Even this short distance lower, the snow is less. The capora who directs us—he is Qipërtani—hands out tools. I am to cut up fallen wood with a saw. I prefer the axe. But he curries favour with the sergeant, and so I am given a saw.
I walk into the woods. Almost no snow at all under the thickly needled branches. Below me, a stand of the grey-barked trees. Aihǔ, the Qipërtani call them. The wood burns well, not fast, and hot. A fallen tree leans against another. I give it a shove, look up to judge if it is firmly snagged. A few weeks ago a Qipërtani man was badly hurt. The tree fell as he sawed, breaking both his legs.
I kick aside dry leaves and the spiky aihǔ nuts. Slipping is also dangerous. I raise the saw to the trunk. A low snort stops me, but I do not move. At the other side of the stand of aihǔ, a boar.
I have seen the wild pigs only once before. Crossing the road, at a distance. I did not realize how big they were. Its small eyes stare at me. The Qipërtani have spoken of maulings, worse. Slowly I lower the arm holding the saw. The boar snorts again. I drop the saw. The animal’s head drops too. It begins to run. At me.
I throw myself onto the fallen trunk, scramble up it. It sways but does not shift. The boar reaches where I stood, its smell rank. It snuffles the ground, turns its huge head side to side. It cannot climb. I am safe.
But there are other men in the forest. I wrap my legs around the trunk, cup my hands at my mouth. Shout ‘boar!’ and then ‘darr!’ Both languages, so there is no mistake.
I hear answering shouts, the message being relayed. The boar retreats a few paces, but not far. It pushes aside leaves, chews on nuts, but it is wary. Looking up, sniffing the air. It hears the men approaching.
They walk as close together as the trees allow. The capora has his sword out. The men bang pieces of wood together, shout. The boar stands, head up, one breath, two. Then it turns and runs.
I slide off the trunk, grinning. “Thank you,” I say, before I bend to pick up the saw. Jokes are made about young bodies, and tusks, and I laugh.
“We will move,” the capora says. “Stay away from the aihǔ groves. You—” He points to one of the Qipërtani. “Go back to the camp. Bring four spears, and two dogs.”
But we see no more boar. We cut the soft wood of the pine. I curse the sap that coats and binds the saw blade. I go back to the cart, find the jar of terebinth, clean the blade. Several times over the day I do this, I and other sawmen. Pine is good for heating water and cooking food. Not so much for the braziers overnight, or the boilers in the baths.
The baths are where I go, when the work is done. Tarquin built them first. The talks and skirmishes went on for some months, but no more big battles. So his men began the quarry and then the bathhouse. We are all grateful, officers and soldiers. Even the general, before he left.
I am teased a bit more in the hot pool, but it is friendly. Few of the men treat me as the sergeant does. Unlike them I cannot linger. I have Marcellus’s needs to meet. But I am glad of the soak first.
The snow has long melted, but it is not warm as the sun sets. Marcellus looks up as I come in, smiles a welcome. “Oh, good. We needed more wood,” he says. I expected that, and have arrived with an armful. I fill the brazier, go back for more, then water. When I return after that, Tarquin has drawn a stool up to the fire. He does not look happy. He is telling Marcellus about some problem at the wall, the cold weather affecting mortar.
“So it takes a few days longer,” Marcellus says. “What of it?”
“I want to be done,” Tarquin answers. “The carpenters are finishing the gates. I want them hung before we have to work in snow up to our waists and a howling wind.”
I hope that is not soon. I do not like winter here. I am never warm, except in bed. If the sergeant knew how much I hate the cold, he would assign me to the watchtowers. So I do not complain.
“Was there any more news in your letter?” Tarquin asks now. Marcellus sighs, puts down his pen.
“I was trying to finish this,” he says mildly.
Tarquin grins. “So it takes a few days longer. What of it?”
Marcellus laughs. “Pour me wine, Druisius.” I do as he asks. “Not much,” he says to Tarquin. “The palace has a new sub-fiscarius. Who it is might surprise you.” He waits.
Tarquin makes a questioning face. “Well, tell me.” He holds out his cup to me. I give him wine.
“Quintus. Blaesus’s son.”
The man who took his life in the forum. Tarquin raises an eyebrow. “Really? So the family is forgiven?”
“It appears so. His sister has made an advantageous marriage, too. To Flavian.”
“Qipërta’s governor?”
“The very same.”
“I wonder whose idea this was,” Tarquin says softly. The two men regard each other, not speaking. Marcellus turns his gaze to me.
“What have you done today, Druisius? And give yourself some wine.”
I thank him. I always do, unless we are alone. “Drilling. Wood gathering.” I sip my wine. “There was a boar, so we could only cut pine.”
“A boar!” Tarquin sits up. “Where? Did it charge you?”
“Yes. In a stand of aihǔ.”
“You’re not hurt?” Marcellus, his voice sharp. I grin.
“I climb fast.”
“A boar hunt!” Tarquin says. “Let’s take tomorrow off, Marcellus, and have some fun.”
The morning is clear, cold, no snow. Tarquin is not himself. He is like my little sister waiting for a treat, shivery with excitement. Like she was. She is a woman now, maybe married. Maybe a mother. Of sons, at least. Tarquin supervises the loading of the carts, nets, rope, spears. The Qipërtani officer is coming too. The dogs are theirs, so he must be invited, Marcellus told me.
Marcellus has left his subaltern in charge of the camp. I am allowed to come on the hunt, but I am to stay at the back. Skill with the spear is needed today, and I am not a spearsman. Or, as Marcellus said after Tarquin had gone, not that kind, at least.
The officers ride. The rest of us walk, or ride on the carts. Frost whitens the leaves of plants beside the road. Our breath clouds the air. It does not take long to reach the place where the boar was. They do not go far, Tarquin explained last night. Not if there is food and shelter.
The breeze is off the peaks, sharp on the left side of my face when I look towards the forest. A Qipërtani man takes one dog, moves down into the trees. He keeps below the stand of aihǔ. Dog and man disappear into the forest.
We wait, in silence. The mules stamp. Their harness jingles. Men cough. These are sounds the boar has heard before. They have not hurt him, so he will pay them no mind. So Tarquin says. He is flushed, and I think not just from the cold. The spear he holds has a long toothed blade, not a soldier’s weapon. Marcellus has a similar one.
The Qipërtani emerges from the trees. He nods, points. Quietly we gather nets, take spears. The other dogs go with their handlers. Three men stay back with the carts and the officers’ horses. One of them, I understand, is a medic.
Instructions are whispered. I go with the men with the nets, to attach them by metal rings and rope to trees. We weight the bottoms with stones and wood, so there are no gaps. The dogs and men will drive the boar into this trap. Then we also circle around the stand of aihǔ, the men with leashed dogs at the front.
The dogs bay and snarl. Men shout. I am at the back, as directed. When fear makes men sweat, the smell is sharp, but stronger than that is the rank scent of the boar. There are too many bodies in front of me to see. I am not tall. Usually I do not care. Now I am annoyed.
I step aside from the crowd of men. The boar is running. Dogs snap, snarl at either side. They drive it into the space surrounded by nets. It must sense the nets, because it turns. Its head swings from side to side, searching. Or judging, maybe.
Tarquin steps forward, his spear held firmly. His eyes are on the boar. His lips are parted, in concentration and excitement. The handlers pull the dogs back, so there is only the man and the boar. The animal does not move. Tarquin steps closer, moving the spear back. Readying to thrust. I hold my breath.
He drives the spear forward, towards the animal’s chest. Its head swings. The tusks catch the spear, push it aside. It charges.
Men gasp. I gasp. Tarquin drops to the ground, flat against the leaves and soil. He covers his head. The dogs are loosed. They attack. Marcellus steps forward, among the animals, spear at the ready. On its other side is the Qipërtani officer. Blood drips now from the boar’s flanks. The Qipërtani officer lunges. The animal is faster. It charges again. Away from the Qipërtani spear. At Marcellus.
Without thought I run forward. To see Marcellus’s spear penetrate the boar’s side. The animal squeals, pushes forward, anger and pain fuelling it. Tarquin is on his feet. His spear takes the boar on its other side. It grunts and falls. But Marcellus is on his knees, and along his right thigh is a deep gash. Blood drips. Fear grips my heart.
I shout for the medic. Can he hear, over the dogs and the men? “Go,” Tarquin says, kneeling by Marcellus. “Fetch him. Now!”