Para Bellum: an exciting tale of war and revenge set in the Roman Empire

1

Flavius Focalis heard his decanus bellowing an order, a hoarse and desperate cry in the press, lost amid the tumult of war. Ofilius had a powerful voice that could suppress any commotion, and yet here, in this disaster, it was little more than a whisper of hope. Focalis tried to turn to see the man, to see if he was gesturing, had some great plan for survival, but there was neither room nor time. If he took his eye from those before him, he would die, and there was no doubt in him over that.

The Thervingi warrior roared as he brought down his long, straight blade, hammering at Focalis’ shield, leaving great rents and dents in the brightly painted surface, numbing his arm with shock after shock. He struggled, heaving Sallustius – who was so close the two kept clouting one another – away in order to bring his own sword to bear. The battering on his shield continued unabated, and he took it as stoically as a dead man standing could, waiting for the moment he knew would come, as long as he survived long enough to recognise it. Then it came. The warrior, exhausted by his own relentless assault, paused for breath, bringing his sword back and up.

Focalis struck. His blade swung out, almost taking Sallustius’ arm with it in its passage, and slammed into the Gothic warrior with as much force as he could manage in the limited space. It was enough. He felt the contact with the chain shirt, felt the momentary resistance and then the slight give as the ribs inside broke, driving shards of bone into the man’s lungs, a blow that would kill him, if not immediately.

As the man gasped and looked down, staggering back until he bumped into another of the growling bastards, Focalis took the opportunity to look around. He could see his own mates now, fighting hard for survival, all still standing by some God-sent miracle, and Ofilius roaring commands that no one could hear, let alone obey. But he could also see the purple standards ahead, where the emperor Valens struggled, surrounded. Victor and his Batavians had been striving to reach the beleaguered emperor, but the Gothic tribes were too numerous and too determined and had cut them off, so that the reinforcements had been forced to retreat, just like all the other commanders who had made their attempts.

Then he saw it, just as he’d known he would. Arrows flew all across the battlefield, as well as spears, thick in the air anywhere the Gothic archers knew they could loose without endangering their own tribes. But this one arrow carried doom, a black-feathered shaft sent by some demon to fell the light of the world.

He saw it plummet. Saw, in a gap in the press, the emperor look up, eyes widening, unable to move in time. Saw the arrow thud into Valens’ chest.

*

Focalis knew he was dreaming. It was an old dream, almost comforting in its dark misery, a long-time companion of his sleeping hours, his only bed-mate since the passing of his wife three years before. He knew it was an old memory, relived in the darkness. He knew he could wake if he really tried, drag himself out of it, but he did not. Some men carried sin like a second skin, coating them and impossible to shed. Flavius Focalis would do penance all his days for his sins. They all would. He did not deserve to wake free from this nightmare.

*

They had fought for so many hours, even when it was clear the battle was lost. Even now he swung the sword with an arm robbed of all strength, a blow wrought by will alone, the will to survive and the will to wound those responsible for this day. Perhaps the one most responsible was already paying the price, though.

As they had been forced back across the field of battle, he had seen the emperor and his guards, the standards still high, manage to break free of the press – but, unable to make it to anywhere safe, still cut off by more Gothic warriors, they had taken shelter in an abandoned building. Valens had lived that long, and only that long. The colours went in, marking the last stand of the emperor, but it had been moments only before the Goths had fired the building, and the emperor had been roasted in his own makeshift tomb. Focalis felt his lip curl. If there was any justice, Valens had lived through the arrow wound long enough to burn. This was his fault, after all. His, and the general Lupicinus. And Ofilius. And Focalis. And the others. It was all their faults.

Another blow carried through purely by will, and a Goth of the Thervingi fell away, screaming and clawing at his ruined face. Few of the bastards wore helmets, and Focalis had thanked the Lord for that more than once as he took clear targets in the press.

Now they were almost back to Hadrianopolis, just one small band of survivors. It was like that all across the field. The army of Rome was gone, just small clutches of desperate refugees fighting to find a way out. Still, they all lived. That alone was a miracle. All eight of their tent party of the Legio Prima Maximiana still stood, though some cradled wounds and others had limbs hanging limp or dragging. But they were sinners of the worst order and cursed men, and their survival was no boon. God was preserving them for a fate of His own worst design, Focalis was sure.

The walls of the city were in sight now, but that was little comfort. They could seek safety there, but when the Thervingi and the Greuthungi and their Alani allies managed to clear the field of Roman resistance they would surround the city of Hadrianopolis and probably burn it to the ground with every living soul trapped inside. No, into the city was not the way to go. If the tent party of Aurelius Ofilius was to survive to face their God-given punishment, they would have to lose themselves in the wilds.

He turned, for another Goth had run at him, and he lifted his sword and shield in exhausted arms, ready to fight on against the impossible odds…

*

This time, Flavius Focalis awoke, the hair standing proud on his neck, his flesh prickling with anticipation. The threat had changed – had become real. The desperate fight of the old dream, even in his subconscious, had morphed into that preternatural warning that something was not right.

The room was dark, apart from a sliver of moonlight that lanced its way between the window shutters and cut across the blackness to leave a line of white across to the far wall. The air was chilly, though the cold sweat dampening Focalis’ brow had nothing to do with weather or temperature. There was silence. The house was quiet, not even the slaves and servants were about at this time. Even the dogs slumbered in blissful ignorance of anything amiss.

Silence.

Darkness.

Focalis lay still, listening, eyes blinking once, twice, trying to rid his mind of the tattered remnants of the dream, even as the dying scream of the emperor in his fiery tomb echoed around his skull. It was quiet and it was dark and nothing was happening. Except something was happening. He could feel it. The silence was just too quiet. The stillness just too still. There is a certain type of nothing that is the deliberate result of someone trying not to be noticed, and this stank of such deception.

His head moved, a fraction at a time, just in case he was being observed, trying not to ruffle the covers, eyes dancing across the darkness, straining to pick out any features. Slowly he began to make them out, deeper black within black, a shadow of a desk in the abyssal darkness, the vague shape of a cupboard. He knew the room well enough to be able to assign a mundane shape to every black-on-black outline he could see, and satisfied himself that nothing was altered within the room. The danger had not reached this far yet, but he could feel it in the house, sense its presence and its approach.

Knowing that at least here in his sanctum he was safe, he rose now, blankets and sheets falling away, sloughing off like a shroud as he slipped out of the bed, bare feet falling to the thick fleecy mat below. He made fists with his toes in the rug, willing life into his old feet as he rose, his tunic dropping back into its natural shape from where it had twisted around him in the dream state. It was no sleeping tunic. He slept in his soldier’s clothes, had even done so before Flavia had passed into God’s grace. Lord, but she had scolded him over that habit. He was retired now, long years retired, and done with the army. Why did he need to cling to his old life so? What would she think now from her place with the angels, if she saw that his habits had extended to keeping his sword now jammed between the bed and the little cupboard beside it, unsheathed just in case.

That was one thing Ofilius had been sure to drill into them all. The decanus had made his men aware that death was only one mistake away, and only a fool slept with his weapon out of reach. Of course, Ofilius clung to the old gods, but still his lessons had value, and he was the man who had carried them through that debacle at Hadrianopolis.

His hand closed on the ivory hilt, fingers sliding comfortably into the worn-smooth grip, and he lifted the long spatha with practised ease, the blade almost an extension of his arm. He toyed with the idea of fastening his belt around his middle and pulling on his socks and boots, but that would take critical time, and there was more to worry about than just his own survival.

There was Martius.

With a quiet, calming breath, and shivering slightly in the cold, he shuffled across the rug and took a wide step across the marble floor to the thinner mat of wool in front of the door. Flavia had complained endlessly that they had paid for some of the most expensive marble in the world, and some of the most glorious mosaics, and he had largely covered them over with grubby, flea-ridden rugs. But this day had to come eventually, and the rugs and mats were not about comfort, but about silence. A footstep on marble or mosaic made an unmistakable sound, whether it be bare foot or hard boot. A footstep on a rug was muffled into silence. She had never understood that, but then she did not believe that her husband’s sins were deep enough to damn him the way they had.

Silent, on the mat, he reached out to the door. The pivots that turned in the sockets when the door opened and closed were greased weekly by the house’s slaves, and so made no sound, just like every other door in the house. Flavia had wanted the door to open out into the corridor, but he’d put a stop to that. The door had to open inwards. If it opened into the corridor, its opening was more immediately visible to anyone out there, and the door itself could hide anyone approaching. Inwards hid nothing.

Sword ready, Focalis pulled the door open in one swift, fluid movement, dipping his head out just far enough to put his eye to the corner and look that way. Only one way. He’d been careful there, too. Their room was the last in the corridor and there was only one approach, but, because he also knew the dangers of being trapped, the window in their room was low enough to effect an escape.

The corridor was empty. Dark, though not as dark as his room. A series of mats stitched together ran along the left-hand side of the corridor. An interloper might not notice them and would likely walk the marble floor, his footsteps betraying his approach, but as Focalis now moved down the passage he stuck to the mats, making no noise as he approached the heart of the house. There, at the rather old-fashioned atrium, lamps still burned, and the glow of gold lit the far end of the corridor, gleaming from the marble floor and the colourful, expensive mosaic that surrounded the central pool. No mats there. Focalis wanted to know if someone had entered that room at the centre of the house. Passing two other doors on the way, he peered in the gloom at the handles and at the base. Neither were open, and no light was visible beneath. The single tiny pebble remained in place on each handle, mute evidence that nobody had opened it. He passed those rooms silently, heartbeat increasing now with the heightening sense of danger.

Footsteps.

Quiet, being careful to be quiet. Gentle and whispering on the marble ahead, either just out of sight in the atrium, or in one of the rooms leading off.

Martius had to be safe. The boy knew enough to keep his door locked, for that had been a habit Focalis had drummed into his son every day and every night of the past six years. Open it only when the clear sounds of normality are audible beyond it, or when you hear your father’s voice. Simple instructions, and Martius was far from daft. He had his mother’s brains, though he’d been cursed with his father’s looks.

His steps became lighter now, almost infinitesimal, a gossamer whisper on the mats as he approached the atrium and its footsteps. Light leather shoes moving quietly in small steps, he reckoned, and just out of view to the left.

The girl’s sudden cough, feminine and gentle, saved her life. As Focalis reached the corner and leapt, she issued that muffled cough, and at the last moment, the sword that was coming up for a killing stroke lowered again. Instead, knowing now that this was one of the house’s staff about night-time errands and moving quietly so as not to wake the master, he stepped out into the golden light of the room and grabbed her from behind, sword hand coming round her waist to pull her close as his free hand went over her mouth and stifled the gasp of fright.

Before she could recover and scream, hand still over her mouth, Focalis stepped round her so she could see who it was. As recognition and confusion dawned in her eyes, he let go of her, put a finger to his lips in a silent command for quiet, and then pointed back along the dark corridor to his room and mimed walking with two fingers. She obeyed, passing out of sight.

Focalis’ pulse was pounding now with unbearable tension.

He settled in the room, backing into a corner so that he could see all approaches, feet slapping almost inaudibly on the marble. He was faintly irked that the girl’s receding footsteps masked any other quiet noise in the house. As they disappeared, all he could hear was his own breathing.

Shield.

That was an idea. He could go warn Martius, but the boy should be safe for now, and a shield was as valuable in a fight as a sword. He padded across to the office doorway, where he would sit of a morning and go through the accounts, wishing Flavia was still alive, for she had a much better head for figures than he. The room was in darkness, just the glow from the atrium creating a golden strip of light across the floor.

He could see his shield hanging on the wall behind his chair, the brightly painted red and yellow circles glaring like some baleful eye. Again, it was only that strange sense that saved him. He took one pace into the room and knew that something was wrong. Indeed, he should have been more careful, checking the room before entering, but he had stupidly assumed that with the girl busy in the atrium, no one would be hiding in the vicinity.

He ducked on pure instinct as the sword cut out of the darkness, flashing in the golden light of the doorway, its wielder unseen in the dark to the left of the door. The owner gave a grunt of frustrated effort as his well-planned and well-executed attack failed only because of his target’s unexpected caution. Focalis leapt into the room, slipping from the streak of golden light into the darkness beyond. For just a moment nothing moved, the two figures – and they were only two, the Roman was sure – hidden in shadow on either side of the golden glow, unable to make one another out.

The intruder took a single step to his left and Focalis narrowed his eyes, picturing the office in daylight, placing the man in the image, mentally strafing the darkness with his gaze, remembering every carefully placed item. His hand reached out behind him, his fingers touching the timber of a cupboard top and spidering across it until they touched cold, soft leather. The sling would be of little use right now, but his hand moved on and touched the pottery bowl, then closed on one of the lead bullets it contained. They were leftovers from his army days, each missile painted with a pithy and often crude suggestion as to what his victims could do to themselves. He lifted the heavy lead bullet and hefted it as he heard another step and adjusted his mental image. The man would be close to the office desk now. He was edging slowly around the room, not quite into the light, but close enough that when he struck it would be from an unexpected direction and closer than anticipated. Not closer than anticipated for a man as prepared as Focalis, however.

He pulled back his arm at chest height, like he had all those days down by the river teaching Martius to skip stones while Flavia laughed and read her precious books. When he threw it, he threw it hard, and angled upwards instead of the straight line of a skipped stone.

He was rewarded with a thud and a grunt as the stone connected with the intruder, but by then he was moving. With just two barefoot steps he leapt, crossing that streak of golden light in a flash. He hit the man hard and drove him back, across the office desk, tablets and pens and papers scattering and falling to the floor as the intruder snarled some insult in that guttural language for which Focalis had been waiting. Not that he had ever doubted who the intruder was, but it was oddly comforting to have it confirmed by the Gothic oath.

He gave the man no chance to rally. The Goths, no matter what tribe they might be, were dangerous warriors, more so individually than the Romans, whose strength had always come from disciplined formations rather than sole ability. Goths fought every fight as though they were alone and hell awaited should they fail, and this one would very likely best Focalis if he gave the man a chance.

He’d known the sword would not come into play immediately, for his plan had been to flatten the man against the desk and trap him, and he had done just that. Instead, his sword hand came up, blade raised, tip pointing to heaven, and came down hard, the pommel smashing into the man’s head.

He cursed at the clonk. The bastard was wearing a helmet. Few of the Goths seemed to do so, and he’d not been prepared for it, yet seemingly his luck was holding. The pommel had struck the brim of the man’s helmet with the clank of iron on bronze, but had slid off and smashed into the man’s face, either nose or eye. The Goth cried out now in pain, all efforts at subtlety forgotten as he fought for his life. Pulling back the sword, snarling an oath to God, Focalis’ free hand located the man’s damaged face, his questing fingers finding the broken nose, feeling the warm, sticky blood. Then they found his eye, the Roman’s hand bunching into a fist with the thumb extended. He felt the thumb meet damp resistance, and then felt that resistance burst, causing a fresh scream of agony from the man pinned beneath him. The Goth was ruined, but he was not yet done, his free hand coming up to his face in horror, assessing the damage in the dark even as his sword flailed, hoping to hit his assailant through sheer chance.

Focalis was already off the stricken man, though, taking one step back, bringing his sword level at his waist, ready for the strike. He thrust. He knew, even in the dark, where the man was, knew the height he was at, for he knew this office and his desk so well. His sword clinked momentarily on the hem of the man’s chain shirt before passing beneath it and into the deadly region of his groin. It mattered little where the blow landed now. The arteries at the top of the inner thigh were a kill, the bladder and groin itself were a kill, and with no protection, the blade would find no resistance. He felt the spatha, two and a half feet of tempered Noric steel, slide deep into the man’s body, passing through his pelvis and deep into his torso. Blood washed over Focalis’ hand, and then again as he gave the sword a half turn, mincing the man’s insides before drawing it free with a fresh slosh of warm liquid.

He took three steps back.

The Goth was shaking wildly as he slid from the desk and fell to the floor, tumbling into that golden strip of light where he thrashed in dying agony. His left eye was gone, his nose flat, the whole face coated with gore, and as he shook and bucked, a pool of blood grew rapidly around him.

Focalis looked down at the man.

He’d been expecting this moment for six years, since the dreadful deed, and even more so for the past four years since that hell on earth at Hadrianopolis. It had begun. This was just the opening act, too, and even that would not be limited to just one man. Breathing heavily, he turned. Gone was the stillness, the silence, the dark. The Goth’s cries during their struggle would have woken the entire household, and even now he could hear shouts of alarm and the patter of many footsteps.

Focalis stepped from the room back into the atrium, blinking in the light, eyes darting this way and that, half expecting another Goth. He could hear activity everywhere now, and knew that he must look a sight. He stepped over to the small impluvium where the water rippled only slightly with the fresh flow of water from the pinecone-shaped fountain in the centre. Between the ripples, slightly distorted, he could see his own grisly face looking back up at him. Was it his imagination or was his reflection wearing an accusing expression? He looked at the stubbly chin, the unruly hair, the weathered, tanned, wrinkled face and wondered when he’d gone grey. He’d not really registered it happening.

Knowing how the girls of the household would react to him like this, he knelt, cursing age as he did so, and pushed his sword under the surface, letting the water carry away the blood and gore of the kill. Leaving it submerged, he scrubbed his hands and forearms, and then sloshed pink water across his face, cleaning off the offensive matter there. There was little he could do about his clothes, for the tunic was military white with the rondel insignia and showed every stain, let alone the huge splash of blood that was slowly working its way across the weave. Retrieving his sword, he stepped into the now deep-pink pool and used his free hand to scrub off the blood.

A polite cough made him turn.

Otho, the doorman, was standing at the edge of the entrance vestibule, wearing a distraught look.

‘No one came past me, master, I give you my word.’

Focalis nodded, waving away the slave’s concerns. ‘He sneaked in some other way. They’re treacherous bastards, the lot of them.’ He pointed to the office. ‘What’s left is in there. Move him into a corner and close the door. God alone knows what the girls will think if they stumble across him.’

As Otho bowed and moved towards the office, Focalis threw a finger out to the man. ‘And when you’ve done that, gather everyone and get them outside to the gardens. You should have a good view and room to run if necessary.’

The doorman made no attempt to argue and went about his work.

Martius. It was all about Martius now. In truth it always had been. Focalis deserved anything that was coming to him, and he knew it. They all did. They were all wrapped in shrouds of sin that no amount of prayer or priestly forgiveness could remove. They were stained and would remain so until hell claimed them. In that, Focalis rather envied his old decanus, for Ofilius’ refusal to accept Christ into his heart meant that he felt no guilt at what they’d done and expected no retribution. Focalis was prepared to burn in the pit for his sins.

But not to allow Martius to suffer. The boy had had no part in it. He was six years old, then, and only eight when his father had staggered, wounded and hollow, back from the greatest loss in Rome’s history at Hadrianopolis. Martius had stayed home with Flavia, as was right, and was not stained with blood and sin. And that was why Focalis would not lay down and accept the fate that he knew he deserved. They could kill him and burn him and it would only be right, but they would not stop with Focalis, and he knew that Martius would be a second target for them, even if only one of convenience. He had even thought of sending the boy away for his own good, but somehow, with Flavia gone and Martius his only link to her, Focalis couldn’t do that. And so the boy had been in danger, and now the old soldier must fight on, one last time, to save his heir.

Somewhere off towards the balneum – the small private bath house – there was a scream, and Focalis galvanised into action. He’d known the Goth would not be alone, but it seemed that all attempts at subtlety, at a surgical attempt to cut the corruption of the master out of the flesh of the house, had been abandoned, and the interlopers had begun a general slaughter.

‘Shit.’ He’d insisted on a small private mercenary force the day he’d come home, but that was one thing Flavia had flatly refused. She had married a soldier, and that was her curse, but she would not let him fill her home with other fighters. He should have done so after she died, of course, but it had never seemed right. Every time he thought about it, he could only see her admonishments, her wagging finger, and he’d put it off. Now he was paying the price. Only he and Otho were really in any position to defend themselves, Otho having been a pit fighter before Focalis had bought him and introduced him to a quieter life, conveniently not letting Flavia know the man’s past until she’d decided she liked him. Every other slave and servant in the house had been bought or hired by his wife, and they were all delicate, educated, peaceful and quiet. And right now a group of vengeful Thervingi would be carving and battering their way through them.

In moments he was running, dripping wet, towards the corridor that led to the other wing of rooms. As he turned the corner, he was both relieved and irritated to see Martius coming the other way, tunic belted neatly, leather shoes clean and trousers tidy and pressed. His dark curly hair was wild, but that meant nothing. Just like his father’s, no amount of combing ever tamed that mop.

‘Why aren’t you in your room?’ he grumbled as the boy skittered to a halt.

‘I heard all the commotion. The household is up, Dad.’

‘Because they’re being killed. We’re under attack, boy.’

Martius frowned. ‘What? Why?’

‘I’ll explain when we have time. Right now we need to get moving.’

His son’s gaze had strayed as he spoke, taking in the stains on his tunic, and Martius’ eyes widened as he looked up at his father. ‘Are you…?’

‘I’m fine. Have you got your sword?’

‘No, it’s in my room. I’ll go back and get it, Dad.’

‘No. You’re dressed already and we’re not separating again. You can have my spare sword. Back to my room so I can finish dressing.’

‘And then we report this? Ride into town, yes?’

‘Fuck, no. No time, boy. And this is far from over. We need to get out now. Come on.’

And he turned and ran, his son at his heel. Just like Hadrianopolis, the Goths were closing in now, preparing to trap their prey. Flavia would admonish him for not thinking of the staff, but Christian charity was not in order tonight. Focalis had no sympathy to spare for anyone else. He had to get them to safety.

Passing back through the house, the pair bumped twice into panicked-looking slaves and directed them to the gardens and Otho’s watchful eye. However many interlopers there were, it seemed highly likely they would be in the house now and looking for Focalis, so outside would be safer by a clear mile. At the bedchamber, he set Martius on watch at the doorway while he gathered his things and swiftly slipped on socks and boots, fastened his belt, and grabbed the secret pouch of solidi, a veritable fortune in one small bag, kept behind a loose tile for this very eventuality. Two old military cloaks and he was done. Preparing to leave the room, he quickly dipped into a tall cupboard and produced his spare sword, nothing fancy, but it had a handle and a pointy end, which was all a sword really needed.

‘Quick stop for my shield and we’re out.’

Martius, still looking frightened and confused, nodded, belted on the proffered sword, then turned and followed him.

‘Who are they, Dad?’

‘This is not the time, boy. Just stay close and keep your eyes and ears open.’

Now he pounded along the passage, ignoring the strip of mat down the side. The time for subtlety was past. As they neared the atrium once more, he could see shapes falling across the golden floor in the doorway – a shadow-play of death, for someone just out of sight was fighting for their life. Turning without a word, Focalis signalled his son for silence and then jogged left onto the mat, deadening the sound of his approach.

Nearing the corner, he held his sword up ready. The shadows told him the fight was over. He saw the shape of one of his slaves slip to the ground, dying, as the victor looked this way and that. For only moments he would have the advantage, taking the man by surprise, and so he leapt without further pause. The Goth was standing with his back to Focalis by pure chance, sword held low by his side, dripping blood onto the expensive marble. A Roman sword, he noted in passing, one of so many stolen during that debacle. In a heartbeat he was behind the intruder. His sword came up until the blade rested against the man’s throat apple. The spatha was razor- sharp. Another lesson learned from Ofilius through the years: a dull blade was a worthless blade.

The Goth made to move, but realised his peril when even this slight jerk drew blood from his neck as Focalis’ other arm came round to hold him tight.

‘How many?’

The Goth gave a snort and replied something in his own tongue.

Martius was there now, keeping a safe distance from the fight, fondling the pommel of the sword at his side. The boy had had four years of training, and was as competent with the blade as any legionary recruit in his first year, but he had never had cause to try his skills for real, and the nerves were evident in his eyes.

‘I know you understand me,’ Focalis hissed at the Goth. ‘If you want this easy, answer me.’

‘Six,’ grunted the Goth.

‘Where?’

‘Fuck you.’

Focalis shifted the blade slightly, drawing another bead of blood, but the Goth remained silent. ‘Martius, break one of his fingers.’

‘Dad?’

‘Just do it, boy.’

As the lad gingerly stepped closer, Focalis hissed, ‘Hurry. I can’t take my blade away or he might get free.’

Mouth clamped into a straight line, eyes scrunched into a wince, Martius reached out and grasped the Goth’s little finger. The man tried to fight him off, but Focalis drew another warning drip of blood. With a crack and a gasp of horror, Martius jerked the man’s finger to a right angle with his hand. The Goth gave a gasp, which only served to lacerate his neck a little more.

‘Where are they?’ Focalis repeated.

‘You will kill me.’

‘That’s a