speaking again.
‘Sollemnis tells me that your father had the misfortune to be both wealthy and a man of honour and intelligence at a time when both made him a target. No emperor can afford to leave any survivors when he removes a perceived threat to his greatness, for the fear of their becoming a rallying point for discontent. Worse, most guard commanders will tell you that almost anyone can be killed, if the assassin has no concern for his escape once the deed is completed – if he has nothing left to live for. It’s a usual precaution for the emperor to order the death of all males in any family he moves against, an essential task of the praetorians, I’m afraid… I’m sorry, but your father is almost certainly dead. Did you have any brothers?’
The younger man nodded, swallowing painfully.
‘A younger brother. He’s… was… ten…’
‘I’m sorry… So you see, this is that moment of which I spoke. You are the only surviving male of your family, the last of your bloodline. If you die, your father and grandfather’s line will be snuffed out for ever. But you’re going to have to take a part in your own protection. Neither I nor Dubnus can run around looking after you for the next ten years, and so…’
Marcus nodded his understanding, took a deep breath and got to his feet, stooping to pick up the razor-sharp cavalry sword.
‘And I certainly won’t knowingly endanger either of you any further. You’ve both already done more than enough. I’ll find some way to escape the pursuit…’
Rufius looked up at him with a gentle smile, shaking his head in bemusement.
‘Brave enough talk, my lad, but likely to see you dead before dusk tonight. What’s needed now isn’t nobility, but mobility. You need to be somewhere else, as far from here as can be managed. And, much as it pains me to tell you this, you must also become someone else, another man entirely, and take on a name as far removed from the one you’ve used with pride all these years as possible.’
Dubnus turned to face them across the grove. Marcus met his frank stare with a shrug.
‘You’re right. This is your country, not mine. So tell me, where should I go?’
Rufius exchanged glances with Dubnus, and then continued.
‘What I was going to say was that neither Dubnus nor I can be absent from our usual routines for long. I would quickly be missed, and suspicions about my role in all of this will already be high enough, and Dubnus is expected back on duty with his unit on the Wall in a few days. We do, however, have an idea of how we can spirit you away from under your enemies’ noses, and hide you in a place they’d never consider. Your part will be to do everything and anything Dubnus tells you to, from now until he delivers you to your destination. Perhaps you can find a way of repaying him…’ He lowered his voice. ‘… although I’d advise against offering him money.’
Marcus nodded slowly, his face still white from the shock of reading his father’s message.
‘I will do whatever I have to. I have no choice. My name…’
Rufius grimaced.
‘It’s never easy to jettison something as close to your identity as the name your father gave you, especially under such circumstances, but you have no choice. You need a simple name, one to let you fade into the background of this bloody story and be lost to view from Rome. Your forename should remain the same, there’s no sense in risking your being caught out in your deception when there’s no need. As for clan and family…’
He pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then thrust a hand into his bag.
‘For a clan name, I suggest this…’
Resting on his outstretched palm was a device constructed of four metal spikes heat-welded together, their points bright iron teeth.
‘It’s a tribulus. Strew a few thousand of these in front of a cohort and you’ve removed any danger of cavalry or chariot attack. See, no matter how you drop it to the ground, there’s always one nasty little point sticking up to wreck a horse’s hoof, and it’ll make a mess of a blue-nose foot too.’
Marcus picked up the vicious device.
‘It’s bent.’
Rufius nodded, taking the tribulus and wrapping his fist around it.
‘My own modification. See, a small change to the spikes’ angles makes it the perfect close-combat weapon if you lose your sword.’
A single spike protruded from between his fingers, two more poked out from either side of his fist, while the last stuck straight out from his palm.
‘However I choose to punch a man with this I’ll always have a nice length of iron in front of my fist. This one’s yours, I’ve got another one in my bag, and you never know when you might find that little toy your only weapon. So, for your clan name I suggest “Tribulus”. Seems quite appropriate, given the way you keep fighting back no matter which way up fate throws you. As for a family name…’
The distant crow cawed again, its harsh call cutting through the crisp morning air. Marcus lifted his head, looking out across the bleak landscape laid out below them.
‘There’s your answer – “Corvus” – it will serve to remind me how my father was mistreated even after his death. And it’s as good as any other name if I have to abandon the one my ancestors have used with pride since the expulsion of the ancient kings from the city…’
Rufius put a hand on his shoulder.
‘You’re not abandoning anything, just burying it here for a while, along with everything else that can betray you to your pursuers. Work the new name through your mind until you consider yourself as Marcus Tribulus Corvus. If the right gods smile on you, you’ll be safe at the Hill in a matter of days, and once there you’ll have to be comfortable with your new identity.’
‘The Hill? Where’s that?’
Rufius’s face creased in a rueful grin.
‘Where’s the Hill? At the end of the world, that’s where. Dubnus, it’s time for you both to leave…’
The Briton pondered for a moment. To their west rose the Pennine mountains, still snow-capped with retreating winter, a bleak killing field with little cover if the inevitable searching cavalry patrols came upon them. A long climb would take them to the peaks, another day’s march would drop them back on to the lowlands on the far side. There they would find safer ground, another legion’s territory, although he knew that the ripples from the slaughter he’d inflicted on the Roman’s pursuers would still spread wide. Taking the fugitive to the north, on the other hand, would take them off the road, but into the forests, dangerous beyond belief for a pair of men, one in the hated armour of Rome, the other very much an unknown quantity. Even if the cavalry sword in his grip was edged with blackened dried blood.
‘I will take him over the mountains to the west.’
Rufius nodded agreement.
‘And I need to be back about my business, away from the pair of you, at least for now.’
He embraced Marcus briefly, stepping back to appraise the younger man one last time.
‘Farewell, then, Marcus Tribulus Corvus, we’ll meet again in the north, Mars willing. My horse is safe in the woods below, so I’ll leave you to it.’
He nodded to Marcus, clasped hands with Dubnus and started back down the slope. The Briton turned to face Marcus, unwrapping a bundle that Rufius had left behind.
‘Clothes and boots, as worn by my people. Rufius bought them for you in Yew Grove. Let’s hope they fit. Also, a blanket, and a nice heavy hooded cape to keep you dry in the rain.’
Fit they did, although they were a rude surprise to Marcus after the quality of his own clothing, rough material and ill-made boots that chafed his feet before he’d even started walking. They buried his tunic, cloak and boots to prevent their discovery, wrapping his gold cloak pin and the message from his father in their folds, and marked their position with a small pile of rocks. Dubnus strapped the cavalry sword to his right hip.
‘Better I throw it to you if it comes to a fight. What would a roughly dressed peasant like you be doing with such a fine weapon? You can have it back when we reach the Hill.’
He wiped mud across the younger man’s face to complete the transformation, standing back to admire his handiwork.
‘You’ll pass. Your hands are too soft, you need to get some dirt under your nails, and your hair is too short, but we’ll cut it even shorter once we’ve got the time, make it look military. You’re a tribesman now, my nephew in fact, and I’m taking you to join my cohort at the Hill… Cocidius forgive me. Anyone talks to us, you keep your mouth
