The Baby and the Battlefield

Chapter Twenty-Five: In Arcius

Arcius was a neatly laid-out settlement of wood and brick buildings, built to house the garrison and the merchants and businessmen who kept the garrison running as it should. The army had originally been stationed there to watch over the pass; the border between the empire and its enemies had once stood here, generations ago. There was no enemy on the far side of the pass now, but it was still an isolated, lonely spot, nearly a day from Byford Augusta on one side, and almost a week from the nearest town on the other side. Bandits preyed on travellers with merry abandon out of the sight of Arcius’ palisade. Here, in the wild mountains, the trees were already beginning to change colour, the red leaves of maples overhanging the wooden palisade and the squat buildings that could just be glimpsed through the open gates. It was late afternoon by the time Marcus arrived. He rode up to the men guarding the gates, wondering what he would say when someone presented him with his brother’s ashes.

Things went more quickly than Marcus expected. The young soldier at the gate read the official documents Marcus presented, and with a sigh, ushered him in to the office of the garrison commander. The man sat on a folding camp stool at a cramped little desk and said a few words about Gaius being gallant and loyal. He said a few other things that Marcus didn't really listen to, about how Gaius had worked hard and been respected by his colleagues. He offered Marcus permission to spend the night in the barracks. He then stuck a bundle into Marcus' hands, cloth, wrapped around something smooth and heavy. Marcus was out of the office and alone in the street before he realized what he was holding.

Marcus leaned against a wall, and, his hands shaking, he drew back the folds of cloth. There, underneath, was a clay jar, sealed with wax. The sides of the pot were glazed with battle scenes, little soldiers and little horses fighting and dying. Marcus turned the pot, his heart sinking when he saw, carefully lettered in paint, his older brother’s name. It was a funerary urn.

“Gaius,” Marcus read, tracing the letters with his finger.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “We never got along the way brothers are supposed to. My fault, I guess. I was always stupid and jealous. And now I have to bring your ashes back. What will father say? What will . . . what will your boy say?”

A few lonely tears wandered down Marcus’ cheeks.

“Goodbye, Gaius,” he said, and kissed the wax seal at the top of the jar.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, wrapping up the urn, “So sorry. It isn’t fair.”

Drawing his dirty sleeve across his face , Marcus dried the embarrassing tears, then turned to find the barracks, and a warm bed, and oblivion.