Behold the Man Read online

Two miles into the scarcely passable forest, the column was strung out over a half mile of narrow gorge. With barely room to turn, each man could view his comrades immediately before and behind, but no others. A pair of ravens rasped at each other from opposite sides of the ravine.

  Just as the last trooper passed the summit of the knoll, the oak shuddered and toppled sideways. Gaining momentum and noise, the giant tree crashed into and crushed three more trees as it thundered across the trail, blocking it completely.

  The echoes of the shattering oak had not died away before being replaced with the whistle of slingstones. Faces streaked with black grease and eyes wide with murderous intent, Cherusci warriors appeared from behind every boulder and stump, like demons emerging from the pit itself.

  A dozen Romans, struck by that many fist-sized rocks apiece, toppled from their saddles. Cherusci axes chopped down screaming men and horses alike.

  A black-fletched arrow zipped within an inch of Pilate’s nose. Struck on the haunch by a stone, his horse reared and plunged, threatening to unseat him.

  “Turn! Turn and fight!” he ordered. But how? Short swords and lances were of no use against arrows and rocks that buzzed like angry hornets.

  “Flee, Tribune,” the chief bodyguard shouted. “Ride for your life!”

  Confronted by an ax-wielding giant of a barbarian, Pilate’s gray stallion launched into parade ground canter. Front hooves churned with fury, and the horse knocked the Cherusci warrior aside.

  A stone from a sling grazed Pilate’s forehead, bloodying him. Another struck squarely in the back of his helmet. The protective gear saved his life, but the blow left him dazed while the horse carried him out of the battle.

  An arrow struck and lodged in the mount’s right hind leg. A Cherusci spear, flung from atop a fallen tree, wounded the horse near the same spot. Bleeding profusely, the gray never slowed until facing the climb up another hill. There it pulled up lame.

  Looking over his shoulder in terror, Pilate beat the horse with his braided whip, demanding, “Keep going! Go!”

  Behind him the noises of battle still raged. Shrieks of pain from barbarian throats proved the legionaries were giving a good account of themselves. Pilate dismissed the thought he should return to the fight.

  At the top of the next hill, where the path at last snaked out of the canyon, loomed a pair of standing stones. They flanked the trail like a triumphal arch honoring his escape. Pilate once more demanded the horse continue moving and, haltingly, it obliged.

  Coming abreast of the boulders, Pilate congratulated himself on pushing through to safety. He was relaxed in the saddle when another pair of warriors leapt at him from either side and brought him crashing heavily to the ground.

  Hands tied behind his back, Pilate was led with a noose around his neck to the Cherusci chieftain.

  “Can we kill him now?” one of the young warriors inquired.

  “Cut his throat?” the other suggested.

  The chieftain backhanded one, and the other ducked out of reach. “This one’s worth more alive. See the silver buckles on his uniform? Ransom we’ll get for such a one.”

  “That’s right, ransom,” Pilate hurriedly agreed.

  The barbarian cuffed Pilate into silence. Peering more closely, he roughly wiped the blood from Pilate’s face. “I know this man. Kin to Caesar himself. Take him to my tent and tie him up.”

  Chapter 2

  It was near dusk. A vast, undulating cloud of starlings swept across the skies above the Ponti vineyards. The flock emitted high-pitched screeches like the ungreased wheels of a line of carts.

  Claudia and Philo sat together on the balcony and watched the millions fly in perfect formation, creating rapidly shifting patterns of spirals and whorls.

  “Look, Mother, there is a helix! How do starlings know geometry?”

  “The superstitious believe the birds are messengers flying with news of the wars to Rome. The priests and oracles of the Roman gods claim the starlings are inscribing prophecy in the skies.”

  “And they know Greek.” Philo pointed upward. “Look, Mother—the letter Omega.”

  The dusky ghost of the symbol for infinity formed for an instant against the sky, then shattered.

  “Tonight Caesar will gather all his prophets at the palace to recite what omen the starlings have brought to him.”

  “Omens only for Tiberius, Mother? Or for Rome?”

  She sighed. “For good or ill, your grandfather is Rome. Caesar believes his gods will send no word to anyone that is more important than what the starlings write to Rome.”

  A black spiral rose like a whirlwind, then collapsed in on itself, reappearing as a wineskin turned inside out.

  “What do you think it means?” the boy pondered. Two clouds of winged creatures merged and mingled before separating again, like the flames of twin wicks dancing in a breeze. “It is as though they battle to conquer the sky.”

  Claudia shielded her eyes as a ray of sunlight pierced the dark mass like a roaring flame. She did not speak, but her imagination flew to a battlefield . . .

  Spiraling smoke from the watch fires drifted up into the autumn sky. Riding the same currents, vultures completed lazy circles, drawing Centurion Marcus Longinus’s attention down toward the unburied corpses littering the battlefield. Rows of sharpened stakes patrolled by watchful sentries kept the Cherusci at bay . . . so far. Supplies, especially water, were low. Now they awaited the arrival of Pontius Pilate and his troops to join them in the task of holding the front lines.

  Marcus made his circuit of the camp. Clapping one legionary on the shoulder, he inquired, “That son of yours, Philip? He must be, what—five years old now?”

  “Six, Commander.” The soldier continued whetting the edge of his sword. “See him again soon, I expect.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Marcus praised. Rubbing his crooked wrestler’s nose that matched his stocky wrestler’s build, the centurion passed on in his inspection.

  Two wounded men, one with an arrowhead in his guts and the other with a crushed skull, would not see tomorrow morning. Others, trying to get some sleep before their turn on guard, coughed fitfully. The nights were damp in this cursed forest and growing colder with every passing day.

  Cassius, the second-in-command, walked one pace behind.

  Clustered around another small fire was a knot of men playing dice. As Marcus watched, a soldier hesitated before a throw, then pushed all his coins into the wager.

  “How’s the game going?” Marcus inquired.

  The trooper gave a wry grin. “Badly, sir. But what have I got to lose? Can’t spend any hereabouts, can I?”

  Out of reach of being overheard, Cassius said, “If reinforcements don’t come by morning . . .”

  “The legion won’t fail us,” Marcus returned. “Pilate must be nearly here. Then we’ll teach these brutes a few things. Just like we did ten years ago, eh?”

  As if to mock his words, a file of Cherusci warriors appeared at the bottom of the hill. Chanting and laughing, they mocked the encircled Romans. All of the Cherusci were adorned with bits of mismatched Roman armor. One wore a captured breastplate that he thumped proudly. Another’s waist was encircled by an empty sword belt that he wagged, provoking the mirth of his comrades.

  The Romans stopped their activities and stood to watch. Even the sentries at the rear barricade turned.

  Cassius snarled, “Back to your posts! I’ll flay the hide off any man who doesn’t mind his duty!”

  A Cherusci chief, half a head taller and broader than the others, stepped forward. He wore a Roman helmet, its scarlet plume shorn of
f close to the crest. Nodding to either side, he ordered two warriors forward, each carrying covered wicker baskets.

  Marcus frowned and dropped his chin. He knew what was coming.

  The chief impulsively knocked the covers off both containers. Lifting a pair of severed legionary heads, he shook them aloft by their hair. “Romans,” he called derisively, “I bring greetings from those you await to rescue you. Can you hear them?” Playfully he brought blood-smeared lips close to his ear. “What’s that? Louder, please. What’s that, you say? Not coming? Not coming at all?”

  Quintus, Marcus’s grim-faced guard sergeant who was old enough to be his father, said wryly, “I know one of those two legionaries. Dio Fortis. Furioso, we called him. Great fighter, lousy gambler. Owed me money, he did.” In a softer tone Quintus added, “Pilate’s men for certain.”

  The barbarian commander kicked one basket over, letting a dozen heads bump and rattle to the ground. “Romans,” the chief taunted, “your brothers’ bones are toys for Cherusci wolf cubs! Their eyes plucked out by vultures.” He waved a head aloft. “Now we hold your tribune hostage. You know his name—Pilate of the family Ponti.”

  “Shut him up, Cassius,” Marcus ordered.

  “Only waiting the order. Now!” Cassius concluded sharply. Five Roman archers, concealed in trees within the compound, launched a volley of arrows down the slope. The Cherusci scattered, but the chief tripped over a fallen head and one of the missiles pierced his arm. He gave a shrill cry of pain as two of his warriors dragged him to safety.

  The Romans cheered.

  “Hope that was old Furioso who tripped him,” Quintus remarked.

  “So Pilate’s been captured,” Cassius observed.

  Marcus exhaled heavily. “So it seems.”

  Cassius squinted at the horizon. “Sunset in less than an hour. Sick and wounded keep the fires as best they’re able. Give the rest of us a fighting chance. Then it’s every man for himself.”

  Marcus gnawed his lip. “How many can still hold a sword?”

  “Less than four hundred,” Cassius replied.

  “Enough.” Marcus nodded.

  “Enough for what?” Cassius frowned. “Marcus . . . Centurion . . . there are seven thousand Cherusci encamped beyond that hill.”

  Marcus lifted his chin. “Gather the four hundred. You’re right about the wounded tending the fires, but it’s not every man for himself. Not yet.”

  Chapter 3

  The mood of Tiberius was black.

  The sun had set, and the palace torches were lit long before the chatter of the starlings fell silent.

  Tiberius barely touched his supper. He demanded that Sejanus, the commander of the Praetorian Guard, send for the temple augurs—priests skilled at the interpretation of the omens of bird flight.

  By the flickering light, four diviners were ushered into Caesar’s bedchamber.

  One after another they foretold that disaster was at hand for the Roman Legion’s conquest in the lands of the Cherusci.

  Tiberius scowled as the bad news was laid before him.

  A gray-bearded priest who had climbed the tower at Jupiter’s temple declared, “Caesar, I saw clearly as the starlings flew over the north quarter. The flock took the shape of a battle-ax descending upon the neck of a great eagle.” He bared one arm and made a chopping motion. “You see?”

  Caesar turned toward the golden eagle standard on display beside him. “The Legion will be defeated, then?”

  “And I saw the shape of a vulture feasting upon a fallen horse.”

  Tiberius sipped his wine. “The cavalry. That would be my son-in-law.”

  The priest nodded and spoke slowly. “The gods have spoken. The signs are clear. The Legion and Pilate of the Ponti, the husband of your daughter, will be slaughtered.”

  The youngest diviner confirmed, “Devastation and defeat for the army and the cavalry troops of Pilate.”

  Tiberius roared with anger and threw his cup. Furious color leapt into his sallow cheeks. The silver chalice clanged across the floor and rolled into a fireplace. “What? Is there never any good news from you? Augurs! You read the signs, and all is defeat in the north! Half the time your reports are wrong. What are the odds of you ever delivering truth to me? Where are auspices of good fortune?” He whirled and snatched up his sword. “I should kill you all myself and read the omens in your rotten guts!”

  At this, three of the seers, eyes wide with terror since Tiberius was capable of fulfilling his threat, stepped back out of the light. No augur was needed to interpret the smell of their fear.

  The eldest of the mystics, bald-headed and white-bearded, came forward with his hands raised. He smiled at the emperor and spoke to him as if he were a naughty child in the midst of a tantrum. “Tiberius, sit and calm yourself. All is not lost.”

  The emperor sank onto his chair. “Well, old deceiver, I am waiting. Rome is waiting. What good news, then?”

  The old man gestured toward the west. “The starlings have flown south. As the sun was setting, I saw a golden portal opened in the clouds. Like a crown, it ringed the sun—a corona of such brightness and glory that one could not look upon it.”

  Cynically, Tiberius spat, “The sun sets every day. What of it? The temples and the Senate of Rome are now covered in stinking bird feces. It is not hard to discern from the smell alone what disrespect the gods have for us.”

  Pausing to smooth the folds of his robe, the augur advised, “Wait, my lord, before you believe judgment. The starlings are gone. Think of this . . . instead, a golden light, like the finger of Mars, lingered upon the Senate. Mars stooped and touched the white marble carving of one victorious soldier. A common man, his head crowned with the golden wreath of victory.”

  Tiberius leaned forward and growled, “Speak plainly, old man, or your head and the heads of these false prophets decorate the spikes at the city gates!”

  The elder seemed unafraid. “The gods are saying one man will come forth and save the army from destruction. When all seems lost, there will arise a victory. The signs may be correct. But one must read each sign properly.”

  Tiberius sat back and considered the weathered priest’s words. He stroked the blade of his weapon. “You have bought yourself and your cronies some time. It will take a while before the messengers come to us from the north. Then I will know if you speak the truth. You claim the signs declare victory snatched from the jaws of the lion—one man saving the Legion. So I will sheathe my sword and spare you execution for now. We shall wait and see.”

  “Do you hear it, Jono?” Philo called through the dark hall to the cot of the slave.

  The chirping of a single bird outside the window had persisted for hours. It was not the pleasant singing of a night bird, but the measured kak-kak-kak of distress.

  Jono’s shadow loomed in the doorway. “Did you call me, young master?”

  “Listen,” Philo instructed. “The bird.”

  Jono was ever on call to protect the young master, to carry him to the latrine, or to bring him whatever he needed. But to be wakened from a deep sleep and asked to listen to a croaking bird clearly grated on the giant’s patience.

  “Shall I carry you to the latrine? Have you had an evil dream?”

  “No!” Philo pointed to the window, where a cloud slid across the face of the quarter moon. “Listen, I say, Jono. There is a bird out there. Knocking.”

  Jono cocked his head and lowered his chin. He listened as Philo commanded. “Yes. A starling, no doubt, left behind by the flock. Wounded, perhaps. I shall go outside and kill it.”

  “Noooooo!” Philo wailed. “She is
calling for help. The owls or the cats will find her and kill her if we do not rescue her. Can you not hear her terror? She is pleading for help!”

  “As you say, young master. Yes. It must be the case. But it is late, and the moon is sliding down the sky in the west. We must sleep, or tomorrow we will see the sun and long for nightfall.”

  Philo sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. “Take me out before the moon sets. We will find Starling, bring her in the house, and save her from the prowling cats.”

  Jono hefted the child in his arms and slid him up onto his shoulder. Following the clacking cry of the bird, they emerged into the moonlight and crept down the stone steps into the garden.

  An owl on the hunt hooted from the sycamore tree.

  “We must hurry!” Philo urged.

  The shape of man and boy created a shadowed form like a giant bear. Philo inhaled the fragrance of the rosebushes. Jono paused. They listened together. Water splashed in the stone fountain.

  “She’s over there,” Philo whispered.

  “Yes. Beside the fountain. Hush now. She could die of fright.” Jono tiptoed along the stone path. He crouched lower to examine the shadows.

  The starling’s cry quickened.

  Philo pointed to the tiny black form huddled at the base of a statue. Jono nodded. They stooped.

  Starling fell silent. One wing drooped low, feather tips touching the stone.

  “See there,” Jono murmured. “Her wing must have been broken in the great dance of her flock today.”

  “Will she live?”

  “Who can say? She may grieve so much for her family, who have all flown south by now, that her heart may break like her wing. There is no mending a broken heart.”

  “Mother will fix her wing. I will tend her heart . . . feed her and sing to her.”

  “If a wild bird can be healed, then I suppose Starling tumbled from the sky and landed in the right place. The magic of your mother can do it.”