The First Wolves

5. GENERAL TARQUIN

Mud flicked across the rugs inside General Tarquin’s contubernium, since the large triangular structure was made from leather, his tent was much warmer and far more homely than a regular soldier’s provision. An army camp had been his home since his late teens, where he began his career as a lowly centurion. His guardian, Antonia’s father, had insisted he wasn’t given privileges and climbed up through the ranks, that it would produce a better leader in the future. He hadn’t been wrong. He could remember in his youth sharing accommodation with eight other men, the conditions had been cramped, but he thought back on those times fondly. The light showers had stirred up the earth, and the rich black sludge congealed in his sandals, causing his white footwear to look unkempt. Since he had risen through the ranks, Tarquin was different from other generals. He had retained a ruthless, coarser side to his nature that made him yearn for battle. He was notorious for being strict with his men, and frightful to his opponents. Truthfully, Tarquin hated the finery of the general’s uniform. Often he found the colour and heaviness impractical, but then most generals gave orders from afar, rarely joining in with the fray.

Committed to his routine, he swapped his sandals for his brown boots and carefully stepped from his tent to meet the lines of centurions waiting for his inspection. Standards were the key to success. Carefully surveying his men, he scrutinised their cleanliness, the presentation of their uniform, and the sharpness of their gladius. Occasionally, he would run his finger over the blade to ensure it was deadly.

“Your blade is dull, ensure you attend to it with a wet stone, and you will serve tonight’s meal as punishment for not being prepared.” Tarquin commented.

Although his men’s feet were sinking in the mud, he could see that they had even tried to make their sandals presentable for inspection. He knew his extreme methods always bore fruition, and he was pleased with the outcome. Following his usual schedule, the afternoon was spent sparring with his men and judging the skill of the soldiers, especially those who had only recently joined the cohort. A particularly skilled fighter, who anticipated every attack and made the defence look easy caught his attention.

“Who is that?” Tarquin asked his tribune.

“He is one of the scouts you asked for, from cohort VIII. The two of them arrived yesterday. There has been a bet on when he will lose, the prize is substantial now,” His tribune responded.

Tarquin made a mental note of his abilities, before returning to his contubernium, determined to plan the next stage of their attack on the errant slaves.

Recently, sleep had been a sporadic mistress, taunting him with precious minutes here and there. The frustrating flirtation had been caused when he first received news of the m******e at the House of Heaton. Since then, he had been relentlessly tracking the whereabouts of the escaped slaves, motivated by revenge for all the human blood viciously spilt by the animals who owed their loyalty to their masters. When the senate chose him to be the arm of their retribution, it was merely convenient to have their support. In reality, he was going to pulverise the uprising of his own accord whether he had permission or not.

Calling his body slave to untie and clean his sandals, he thought about the first time he had seen the governor’s daughter: his Antonia. He had been her father’s heir. She was just a young teen. She was running around the fountain splashing water at her slaves, and laughing with unspoilt innocence and joy. He knew he was unworthy, she was a constellation and he a mere astronomer, but hopelessly he tried to manifest a future where she would be his. Despite the recognition of his own unworthiness, he would lose hours to fantasies of marriage and having a family with her, longing for a world where they would be together. Daring to ask her father for her hand, he was denied the honour. A political marriage had already been arranged for her. She was to marry the son of a difficult Ludus owner, because his father was causing conflict in the senate house by obstructing the Serfdom Bill. Simply put, there was no advantage to a marriage with Tarquin, other than securing his happiness. That was the summer she met Magnus Heaton. It was also the summer that he decided to volunteer to travel the empire and quash uprisings against the capitol. Aspiring to have political influence, he chose to utilise the army to become a name synonymous with victory, and he became set on his goal to continue to rise through the ranks of the legions, even though he was already one of the youngest tribunes. He continued on his course like a hell demon, convinced that one day Antonia and her father would see his offer as the preferable option, and allow her to divorce the Ludus owner. Fate was vicious.

Disturbing his spiral into the tomorrows he would never have, the guards announced the return of the scouts. Two men entered, slamming their forearms across their chests in respect. One man seemed to be in his mid-forties, whilst the other looked closer to his late fifties.

“Report!” Tarquin ordered.

“The camp has moved on, they are two days ahead of us. They have a large number of women and children with them, which is slowing them down, plus they are carrying their supplies, creating an additional detrimental effect on their speed.” The older scout reported, shrugging his red cloak further over his shoulders to keep off the cold of the night.

“What about fighting force?” Tarquin questioned further.

“It’s hard to tell. They have strong trackers, so we had to keep our distance. We could hear them training, and it sounded like a number of them would be able to engage in a conflict,” The older scout answered again.

“You’re very quiet,” The general turned to the younger scout, who seemed contemplative.

“They left carvings on the trees of wolf heads, and there was a lot of salt sprinkled in the camp,” the younger scout commented.

“Suggesting?”

“Suggesting that they have salted their meat, so they are concerned about food rations, and they are preparing for a long journey. The wolves seem to have offered us a dare. They are daring you to follow them,” The younger scout deduced.

Tarquin ignored the wisdom in the words he heard, and tried to place the scout’s face in his memory of where he had seen it last. Realising why he looked so familiar, Tarquin smiled.

“I saw you training this morning. Your skills are impressive.”

“Thank-you General, I was taught by a great friend.” The younger scout replied, lowing his head in respect of the compliment.

Tarquin pondered the information he had been told, before dismissing the scouts with a flick of his four fingers. He knew he had two choices: follow their trail and be led into a trap, or wait for the next move and anticipate their mistakes. Looking over at his immaculate uniform that was waiting to be worn in the corner of his tent, he sneered at the cleanliness of it. His breastplate was gleaming, the silver so polished he could see his reflection in it. This was the only thing he liked about the uniform, because there was a macabre humour in the idea of his enemies being able to see their last expression when they died. He wondered if it played like a theatre show, when they saw their last breath trickle out. In buff gold was a scene that depicted a man wrestling a wolf to the ground, the red ruby eyes showing the madness of the wolf, and the sapphires reflecting the bravery of the soldier. He had only recently added this allegory to his armour. His helmet was decorated with the black horse hair of his first loyal stallion that he had ridden into battle with many times. When his steed died many years later, Tarquin honoured his sacrifice by having him woven into the helmet of his uniform.

His slave, Quintus, had returned presenting his white sandals in the palms of his hands. The mud had been completely removed, but a little thread was dangling from the strap. The sight of it annoyed Tarquin, the lack of attention to detail was unforgiveable. Following his master’s gaze, the wolf quickly tucked the thread back into the sandal fold, praying for a reprieve. Quintus had been bought to take Tarquin’s punishments as a young boy. As an unruly child, his mother had hoped that he would form a bond with a similar aged wolf, and this would help him to make better choices. If anything, the opposite effect happened. He recognised the inferiority of the wolves, so he was happy to let his ‘companion’ take his whippings. On the other hand, Tarquin had specific criterions that Quintus knew how to fulfil, so when he left for the legions he took his body slave with him. Continuing with his duties, the wolf placed the sandals by his bedside, pointing towards the tent flap and turned down the corner of his master’s bedsheet. Noticing the chest on the floor by the bed, Quintus leant down to remove it, knowing such obstructions were forbidden. His fingertips barely touched the bottom of the wooden container when pain split through his face.

Tarquin had decided to ignore Quintus’ error. The loose thread had been resolved easily enough. Longing for his bed, he turned to see if the corner had been folded back when he realised that Quintus’ was about to move the chest from beside his bed. Before he realised that he had moved from his seat, he picked up the pure white sandal then brought the sole of it down on the pitiful wolf’s face with such force that it snapped the leather of his sandal into two. An instant red semi-circle vibrantly appeared on Quintus’ cheek, but he didn’t utter a sound other than the sharp intake of breath from the pain.

“Never touch that chest. Do you understand?” Tarquin raged, and noticed how his body slave nodded his head, but looked dazed with his eyes unable to focus.

“Have these swapped by morning. Go!” He commanded, throwing his sandals at him, and watched as the wolf scurried away, afraid of his wrath.

Taking deep breaths, he pulled off his outerwear and dressed in a light tunic for rest. His eyes were scratchy with tiredness and his body ached with fatigue, but sleep trifled with his patience. Pulling the divider across his bed, he ensured he was hidden from sight if anyone walked in. He rolled over and opened the precious chest. It was wrong. He knew it would make him damned if his ancestors could see him. His mother and father would cry from the afterlife if they knew what he was doing, but it didn’t stop him. Reaching into the cushioned box he pulled out Antonia’s death mask, and placed it on the pillow beside him.

“Help me sleep, sweetheart. Let me rest so I can ruin those wolves.” He whispered to her.

Slowly, images of his white uniform smeared with mud and blood, calmed his beating heart. He imagined the glorious, dark, sticky sensation of the lead wolf’s blood dripping off his gladius, and splashing across his breastplate. When that outcome happened he would never wash it off, he’d stare at his vengeance every day until death claimed him. He would wear it on his pyre, ready for Antonia to see what he had done in her name. Under the protection of Antonia’s death mask, he enjoyed a deep and productive sleep, upset when morning broke his peace and he had to return her mask to the chest. He kissed her forehead gently, and promised her he would see her that night. Half-dressed, he summoned his tribune.

“Issue the order that we are to follow the wolves’ camp, and send the scouts to track their movements.” The clash of a fist on the metal breastplate, affirmed his orders would be followed.

Quintus entered with the bowl of warm water, the red mark on his face was now black, and new sandals were dangling over his forearm. Tarquin said nothing to him, he simply held his arms out and allowed his wolf to prepare him for the day.