Do as the Romans Do (Part Two of Two)

Continued

So … back to my own sorry tale.

Whilst Paulinus was busy massacring druids and the Iceni were busy massacring Romans, we in the Secunda were busy keeping ourselves very much to ourselves.

Nevertheless we still had duties that we couldn’t get out of. One night, my little group were doing sentry duty on the Fosse Way, a mile or so outside the city, when a cart being pulled by two old nags came along. There were two men in it; one clearly a citizen of some standing and the other, probably his slave.

Caepio challenged them though his accent was so thick I don’t expect they understood a fucking word. Anyway, we were all on edge with the revolt and all, and when he didn’t get a civil answer, Caepio bashed the citizen over the head a little too hard. I heard the crack from twenty paces away and I knew the stupid sod had killed him. Calidus immediately stepped in and killed the slave too. By the time I reached the cart, the whole thing was over and we had two dead bodies on our hands.

I searched the cart and under several bundles of cloth, found two large amphorae filled with coins. The fucking idiots had killed a bloody Quaestor on official business. It looked like he was transporting the legion’s pay and I guessed that his arrival was probably expected by the senior officers. Well then I knew we were in the cloaca big time.

There was nothing else for it; we had to hide the bodies and pretend nothing had happened. The fact that there was a large cache of money might have had something to do with my decision – I really can’t remember now. So we loaded the bodies into the cart and discussed how we would deal with the fucking mess we were in. I could see the hints of avarice already building in the eyes of the others, especially Calidus, and I had a sudden premonition that it’d all end in tears.

Just then, we heard a horse’s hooves and things suddenly got worse. Into sight rode an official military messenger. Both he and the horse were dripping with sweat and must have been in a tearing hurry. He seemed relieved to find legionaries there to welcome him which just showed what a fucking idiot he was. I allowed him to blurt out something about raising the legion to help Paulinus to put down the rebellion but it wasn’t an entreaty that held any interest for me, so I rammed my gladius down his nagging throat. That shut him up and good.

Clearly we had to dispose of the bodies somewhere no-one would find them but, more importantly in everyone’s view, we had to secrete the treasure somewhere safe too. Nevertheless, we couldn’t leave our post unguarded in case some nosey bleedin’ centurian came snooping or checking up on us.

No-one wanted to be left behind – we were not the most trustworthy of companions after all, so we drew lots for who was to stay there to cover our backs. With a little subtle manipulation, it was no great feat to arrange that the thickoes Lentullus and Longus got the short straws.

The rest of us took a track that led away north and skirted a ravine on one side for part of the way before taking a gradual descent to the river. Calidus and I had been part of a detail sent out on a patrol along it a few weeks before and we’d helped to build a wooden bridge over the river at that point. We knew the lie of the land well enough to determine that it was a good place to hide the loot until an opportunity arose to leave the fucking army forever and recover the treasure. With the cart and horses available to us, it didn’t take long to travel the two miles to where the river bent east from its northward course. The ground was marshy there but a spit of higher, gravelly ground had been where we’d built the bridge. It would be bloody ideal for our purposes.

Working as quickly as we could but with caution (festina lente, to coin a phrase), we slaughtered the poor bloody horses and stripped the three men of all their gear. We tipped the lot into a shallow back-water off the river, being sure that the marsh would quickly swallow the evidence. So it proved for in no time at all, the corpses had disappeared into the mire.

We took much greater care with the two amphorae of coins. A small and dry hummock by the side of the track was perfect and we buried the plunder there, not too deep but deep enough to deceive any future prying eyes.

On the way back to our post, we pushed the cart, now containing all the unneeded gear, down the ravine and watched it smashing itself to pieces as it fell. Let someone try to work out what it signified if they liked, it just looked like the result of a stupid fucking accident to any reasonable observer.

Lentullus and Longus were delighted, but probably surprised, when we re-joined them at the post not much more than an hour after we’d left them. We told them, of course, where we’d buried our prize. What do you take me for? We’d already agreed an eighth each and I always keep my promises. I was a man of integrity, you see. The plan I had in my head was my fucking business and I didn’t see why I should trouble the others with it. They’d learn soon enough.

The one thing I did keep from those we’d disposed of was a small scroll which I’d taken from the dead messenger. It held no interest for the others as I was the only one who could bloody read anyway. It was a set of instructions from Paulinus which ordered the acting commander of the second Augusta, one Poenius Posthumus, to gather together the legion and meet up with him and his troops at the crossroads of the Fosse Way and Watling Street. It was clear that he meant to meet Boudicca and her followers with all the troops at his command in an attempt to wipe her off the face of the earth.

What disgusted me though was that Paulinus made no effort to hide the reasons why the Britons had revolted in the first fucking place. Apparently, the masters of civilisation (that’s us Romans), to show our contempt for the Barbarians, had flogged Boudicca and then raped her two young daughters right in front of her. I tell you straight, it made me ashamed to be a fucking Roman and I found myself hoping that we’d get our arses kicked right out of the island. I even thought that when I picked up my share of the money, I might chuck in my lot with the fucking Britons.

Of course, there was little that I could do but I did do one thing. I made damn sure that the tosspot Posthumus never got the message. Of course, the Britons were routed by Paulinus anyway but when the revolt was put down, the Secunda Augusta was in disgrace. Posthumus was true to his name and the stupid principles of his fucking class and he slit his own throat – stupid bastard. I had no sympathy even though it was at my hand that the alleged cock-up occurred.

I suppose the legion might have been decimated as punishment but Posthumus got the blame and the rest of us were in the clear. Things cooled down rapidly where we were, though I did hear that the Iceni and Trinovantes bore the brunt of Paulinus’s punitive reprisals – he more or less annihilated them, and I mean that in the original sense of the word. He was a great Roman general I’ve heard, but that’s just another way of saying he was a vicious, power-crazed bastard.

Anyway, back in Isca, strange things began to occur over the weeks following. At first, I wasn’t sure what was happening. First Eunuchus disappeared while on patrol on a day when I was confined to camp. Then Lentullus got himself stabbed in the back in a skirmish with a band of local brigands. By the time Longus had met his death by drowning in the river, I’d worked it out. Calidus, the devious sod, was cleverly increasing his share of the loot by neatly disposing of our companions, an eighth share at a time.

I would have discussed this with Caepio, Talpa and Rana, of course, but there was a problem. They’d also fallen foul of the hazards of army life. I wasn’t overly concerned with the misfortunes that had overtaken them though, as all three ‘accidents’ had been cleverly engineered by yours truly. I told you I had a plan didn’t I? As if you couldn’t guess – bastard by name and bastard by nature. What distressed me though was that Calidus seemed to have a similar plan and was nearly as big a bastard as I was. That offended my Roman sense of superiority, I don’t mind telling you.

For a week or so, he and I watched each other like hawks. I was confident that he wouldn’t take an accomplice in the camp ‘cos he was far too greedy for that. I suspect he reasoned the same about me. He was right enough on that score.
Anyway, one night, I spotted Calidus creeping out of the camp and I followed him at a distance. He was clever as well as deceitful though. I’d not reckoned on him taking an outside accomplice though I should have anticipated that as he spoke the local lingo being a Briton himself, though from a different tribe, I think.

So about halfway to the site of the treasure, I was set upon from behind. Fortunately, I got a moment’s warning as I caught a whiff of his rancid smell from several yards away. I turned and just avoided the fucking axe which he’d planned on burying into my skull. As I backed away I knew that a wrestling match would not be a good idea as this Briton was as overpowering as his body odour was. He made a lunge to grab for me but that was his mistake. He was an ignorant Barbarian after all and had presumably never heard the legionary’s dictum, “Though your arm be tougher than my neck, my pilum is harder than your sternum – so up yours!”

He fell at my feet, impaled on my spear.
By this time though, Calidus was long gone and I hurried to the river as fast as I could go. I caught up with him only about fifty paces from his goal. This time it was an equal fight, trained soldier to trained soldier and gladius to gladius. We both knew all the tricks and though I was ten years older, his extra speed was cancelled out by my greater guile. We fought for a good while until the sweat was pouring off us both despite the freezing, bloody cold of a typical British night.

It was an equal match right enough – the cry of triumph as I split open his groin died on my lips as his sword penetrated my guts. Two killing blows applied in the same fucking awful moment.
No-one should die alone. We sat looking into each other’s eyes as both of us bled to death on that little spit of British soil. I think I outlasted him but it can’t have been by more than a moment or two. I saw his spirit rise above him like a silver mist before a sudden gust of wind blew it all to shreds. Why my spirit endured to haunt this lonely place, I don’t know. Perhaps my hands were so stained with blood and treachery that even Pluto himself couldn’t bear to be associated with such a monster and barred me from his domain for eternity.

In a very odd way though, I was really proud of Calidus. I’d had a major hand in training him when he joined the legion and I thought he’d acquitted himself admirably. You see, with all our protestations of civilisation and the airs and graces we Romans affected, it was just a load of bollocks when you got right down to it. We weren’t really that different from the fucking Barbarians we were taught to despise. I always thought the only substantial difference between us was that, unlike the Britons, we Romans took the trouble to wash our dirty arses after having a shit.

So for nearly twenty centuries, I’ve wandered these hills, terrifying the locals and scaring away every mortal who dared to come within a few paces of the treasure that lay beneath the surface, so near and yet so far from my ethereal but still avaricious grasp.

But about a year ago, a man arrived who seemed impervious to my dreadful presence and immune to all my ghostly frights. What extra quality he possesses, the Gods themselves must have given him because he ignored me though I swear he walked right fucking through me once or twice. His concentration seemed completely untroubled as he marched back and forth over the land, strange headgear pulled over his ears and with a divining rod in his hands. Somehow, nothing I could do would drive him away as he made his slow progress over several succeeding nights. My frustration grew as he drew nearer and nearer to my lost treasure and I screamed in silent anguish when his spade finally struck against the earthenware amphorae containing the tens of thousands of reasons why I had died in this forlorn and benighted bloody spot.

Soon after, groups of others arrived, digging dirty big holes all over the fucking place. They found the complete skeletons of three men intermingled with those of three horses. They even found many blackened bones spread widely by the ancient animals which had scattered the pitiable pieces of Calidus and myself. Seeing the meagre remains of my own sorry physical existence sent a chill, even through my bitter-cold, ghostly spirit.

Then, yesterday, the entire site was invaded by scores of people, and the place was a flurry of activity and excitement. Large vehicles arrived and peculiar devices were trained on a dirt-grimed man with long, straggling grey hair and a tangled beard (oddly reminiscent of one of his long dead British ancestors) as he pontificated into the magic eye.

“This is a highly significant find,” he intoned grandly. “A metal detectorist quite properly informed us of his find of coinage and we have been excavating the site for nearly a year. The coinage we’ve recovered is the largest ever discovery of its kind in Britain – over thirty thousand bronze and copper coins from the first century AD.

But …”

Here the pompous bastard paused for effect.
“…what my team has since discovered represents an even more important archaeological find. Our excavations have found the remains of three men and three horses. It is clear to me that they were interred with the greatest reverence and we are sure that the pot containing the coins would have been put together over many years. It will certainly have been carefully placed nearby in order to pay homage to the memory of three great local chieftains, buried with their noble steeds.
We also found some traces of two other individuals. The cavalier fashion in which their bones were scattered across the site suggests to me that they were possibly a couple of their slaves, or despised enemies who were ‘dis-boned’ in contempt.”

Then he puffed himself up to an even greater smugness to deliver his final pile of self-satisfied bollocks. “All the time we learn more about the nobility of our ancestors; their great displays of pious regard for their leaders and the dignified rituals they carried out to show their deep reverence for the departed.”

Why is it that archaeologists always turn to vague ideas of ritual and religion when they don’t have the faintest clue about what they’ve discovered? I mean, what kind of a people do they think we ancients were? They find a simple, fucking crime scene and twist the few bloody facts they do possess in such a way so they can pretend to know what they’re talking about.

I mean – it was fucking obvious. Ignore the archaeological bullshit for a minute and consider it how a human being with common sense should. A horde of coins and some dead bodies! It doesn’t take bleedin’ Gordianus the Finder to work it out.

There was one good thing though. The man who discovered the site never did tell the idiot archaeologists about the other amphora he found – the one with over thirty thousand gold coins in it!

So at least some lucky bugger got something out of the whole sorry story; and good luck to him, I say. I’d like to think he’s descended from my sister, though I suppose given that this is Britain, it’s much more likely that he’s descended from that sly bastard Calidus.