The Legions of the Mist

by Damion Hunter

  ‘And grant us strength.’

  They knelt, side by side, and in the absence of the Wine and Sacrifice, pricked each the other’s forefinger and rubbed the blood along the stone edge of the altar. Then, eyes fixed on the face of the god, they made their vows in silence. The cloud cover shifted and the little window gleamed golden, shining on breastplate and helm and softening the shadows of their faces.

  ‘Mithras, Lord of Armies, grant us victory.’

  They rose and, giving homage at the place of the Father, made their way out into the light.

  * * *

  A week later, the repairs at Trimontium completed, and the freedom of the Selgovae about the fort curtailed on the Legate’s order, they were on the march again, this time southwest across the mountains to the outpost of Castra Exploratorum, there to receive the official surrender of the High King of the Brigantes.

  Treaty had been made the previous summer with Cathuil as the High King’s agent, the king himself being too near death to be moved. The Legate, with the testimony of Justin and Licinius as to Vortrix’s wound, had accepted that, but demanded a personal appearance in future by Vortrix (or his successor) as part of the bargain.

  He had considered demanding Vortrix’s hide as well, but since the Legion couldn’t wield enough force to ensure that the new king would be of their choosing, he had decided against it. A new king might forget his allegiance to Rome as speedily as Vortrix had; whereas Vortrix with a bad arm afforded a source of internal dispute which might be used to break the tribe apart. Castra Exploratorum was the nearest fort to the High King’s hall, and a number of the extra troops the Legate had brought with him would be staying there, much to their dismay.

  It was a dismal place for a surrender. Built by Agricola in the heyday of his drive north, Castra Exploratorum now marked the northwest outpost of Rome. The turf and grey stone ramparts were solid, but there was a bleakness about the place. The commander’s quarters, in which the Legate was installed, were dark and full of unused rooms where cobwebs hung in ropes from the ceiling. The Optio had taken one horrified look at the state of the Principia and ordered it scrubbed from top to bottom. Now the legionaries and Exploratorum’s auxiliary garrison stood at attention in the grey afternoon light, lining the road the High King would take, while the Legate and his senior officers awaited him in the Principia.

  Justin, scrubbed and polished in full dress kit, stood uncomfortably in the row of officers posted behind the Legate’s chair. There was a clamor of hooves and horns, and five chariots swept through the open gates. The mist was coming down already, and it wreathed about the horses’ fetlocks and gave a ghostly image to the light wicker chariots careening behind them. In the lead, behind a team as grey as the mist, rode the High King. His driver, who carried a harp bag slung from his shoulders, was the same slim warrior with the girl’s face that Justin remembered from the battle of Cataractonium.

  Vortrix was dressed in a wolfskin cloak, and boots and breeches of soft grey leather. Even his eyes seemed to reflect the mist, and only his hair, shining palely about his face, gave testament that he was not indeed a being created from the grey air.

  As the chariots came to a halt, he vaulted down and, with his driver and two of his household guard, strode forward to make his service to the Legate. His face was grim, and as cold as stone, and Justin could imagine what this afternoon was costing him. The High King knelt to Rome, in the person of the Legate, and his eyes caught Justin’s. Only then, as yellow eyes met blue across the top of Rome’s helmet crest did a trace of emotion cross his face. What emotion, Justin could not be sure. The light in the blue-grey eyes flickered once, and then he was looking down again as the Legate pronounced the terms: so much in tribute, so many men for the Auxiliaries, so much in indemnity.

  Vortrix nodded and, in the lilting accent of the British, asked truce and pardon for the war band. The Legate also nodded, seals and signatures were affixed, and it was done.

  Vortrix and his spear brothers turned in silence from the Principia, wheeled their chariots in the road, and were gone. This time the High King drove his own team, shaking them out to their full stride until the chariot rocked and bounced over the roadway and his blond hair streamed out behind him like a torch. The last ray of sunlight winked and went behind the hill, and the five chariots vanished into the forest, the thickening mist deadening even the sound of their passing.

  * * *

  The Legion came back to Eburacum in August sunlight, through fields thick with rabbits, popping out of the wild grasses like puppets, ears at attention.

  There was news of some sort in the air as Justin followed the other officers into the Principia to report. The men were standing about in groups of two and three talking softly as Centurion Geta came up to him, his wrinkled face even more sober than usual.

  ‘You won’t have heard yet,’ he said. Geta had gone with the Primus Pilus on the southern patrol and had returned almost a month ago.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Justin asked in an undertone. (The Legate preferred official announcements to come from him without any preliminary gossip.) ‘Something big, it looks like.’

  ‘The Emperor’s dead,’ Geta said.

  ‘How?’ This could mean a good deal of trouble.

  ‘Natural causes, I believe. For a change,’ he added with a bit of a smile. ‘We only heard last night.’

  ‘And who to succeed?’

  ‘Hadrian, they say.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, then. There’ll be no sword-made Emperors with their eye to the purple while Hadrian’s wearing it. What is…’ He broke off as the Legate coughed and strode to the front of the room.

  ‘Officers of the Ninth,’ he began portentously, and Justin braced himself. The Legate was a politician of the old school and could hardly be expected to pass over the chance to deliver himself of a lengthy speech on the virtues of the new Emperor and a flattering eulogy of the dead one. The two were fortunately not incompatible (it was always awkward if they were, trying to combine pleasing the living power with proper respect for the dead one), since Trajan had been his successor’s foster father. Still further lengthening the speech was the fact that the Tribunes of the Legion, whose year was almost up, were both present, giving the Legate some cause to hope that the gist of his remarks might reach the ears of the new Emperor.

  Justin eventually made his escape to see his men settled in barracks. The whole fort was rippling with excitement and speculation. A new emperor could mean new postings, new policies, new favorites…

  ‘Don’t be an ass. He’ll pay no more mind to us stuck up here at the world’s end than Trajan did.’

  ‘Aye… go out and get killed for a damn rotten province that’s not worth a denarius, that’s what we’re good for!’

  ‘Maybe things will change now.’

  ‘Sure, and pigs can fly. There’s only one way to change anything here—’

  ‘Shut up, here comes the commander!’

  Justin fielded questions, gave out all the information he could, and departed with the admonition that while the proclamation of a new Caesar would mean games in his honor, bonuses, and other largesse, none of these would be forthcoming to any man of his who did not behave with the circumspection of a Vestal Virgin.

  ‘There will be no “man with a penny” among my cohort, and if I catch him, I’ll put his penny where he won’t like it.’

  ‘Hear that? You better watch your ass, Drusus,’ one of them laughed as Justin left.

  ‘Nay, it wasn’t me,’ Drusus said sulkily. ‘ ’Twas one of Centurion Cassius’s. Not but what a rock’s less than they deserve.’

  ‘Oh enough, go to bed. Me, I intend to enjoy the handouts. I hope the Emperor’s generous. I’ve got my eye on a little Egyptian piece…’

  The body of Trajan, uncaring, lay in state at Selinous while Hadrian took stock of his Empire.

  As Justin turned in the garden gate, the door of the house flew open, and a figure far rounder than he remembered came
hurtling down the path and into his arms. He held her for a moment, smiling down into her eyes, while Finn danced hysterically around them.

  ‘I knew you’d be a while in camp, so I didn’t come up,’ she said.

  ‘There are rumors flying all over. Is it true? And I have missed you!’

  ‘I have missed you too, and yes, it’s true, little Eyes-and-Ears. Your sources are accurate as usual. The Emperor is dead.’

  ‘And what of the new one?’

  In the house, he piled his armor in the corner and stretched out gratefully. ‘Hadrian? I don’t know. He’s a soldier. As good a man as any from what I hear. I suppose we must wait and see.’ He pulled her down on the couch with him and kissed her. ‘You’re getting fat, my girl.’

  Gwytha gave a little hoot of laughter, her eyes dancing. ‘Yes, it kicks me now, and very hard too. They say that means a boy.’

  ‘Hmm. I suppose “their” guess is as good as anyone’s. Are you well? I want Licinius to look at you again.’

  ‘I am very well, and Licinius has other things to do than play midwife. But I’ll see him this week if you like.’ She buried her face against the hard muscles of his forearm. ‘I am so glad to have you home.’

  Januaria, returning from an information-gathering tour of the town, quietly collected Justin’s gear to stow it in the bedroom, and left them thus until dinner.

  The meal was a special effort on Januaria’s part, her own welcome-home to the centurion, a miraculous array of milk-fed veal, peas, pastries, and summer fruit. The evenings were warm in mid-August, and afterward they sat companionably under the portico in the long twilight, listening to the sounds of river traffic and the tramp of the Watch. Gwytha was giving herself eyestrain over a pair of tiny boots while Justin polished a summer’s rust from the blade of his hunting spear. Finn, who knew what that meant, stretched his great paws out and thumped his tail on the paving stones.

  After a while they were joined by Licinius and then Hilarion, drawn by the murmur of voices and the open gate. The surgeon kissed Gwytha on the cheek and inquired after her progress while Hilarion perched on a chair opposite and regarded the domestic setting wistfully. Inevitably, as with all conversation that night, the talk turned to Hadrian, the unknown quantity, and now the ruler of them all.

  ‘And what will the new Caesar do now?’ Gwytha asked.

  ‘No one knows yet,’ Hilarion said. ‘One would think he would feel somewhat bound to keep to his foster father’s policies, at least at first. But they say he’s pulling back the boundaries in the east. All hell’s broken loose in Egypt and Mesopotamia. Trajan overreached himself, I think. But it’s early days yet.’

  ‘And will that mean more troops free for Britain?’

  ‘Not for a while yet, I shouldn’t think,’ Justin said. ‘Things are scrambled all over the Empire. Eventually maybe.’ Too late maybe, he thought, but he didn’t say it.

  Gwytha snipped off a thread. ‘A year ago I would have said the fewer Romans in Britain the better. Now I suppose I am become one. At any rate, I begin to think differently.’

  ‘About Rome or about Britain?’ Hilarion asked.

  ‘I love this country as you love Rome… or your Eagles. This is my land. But I begin to see that Justin is right. Always there have been wars among the tribes. And before, there were wars between us and the dark people. My people came from Gaul… in the north, they came overseas from Eire. In between, we battle the sea raiders and the Northmen. Someday they too may decide to settle and begin raiding land instead of gold. And then they will push us out as we pushed the dark people. Rome could make us one people, strong enough to hold our land against them.’

  ‘But you would still be ruled by Rome.’

  ‘I have seen what the sea raiders do. They burn and kill for the joy of it. Of the two, I prefer Rome.’

  ‘A pity young Vortrix doesn’t.’

  ‘Vortrix thinks he can unite the land himself, but I think that day will not come in his lifetime. I think also that when it does come, it will be Rome with Britain. We cannot go back and shut our island off. Rome is too big to be ignored. And there are worse things than Rome.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. But how flattering.’ Justin eyed her slyly. ‘I’ve always wanted to be regarded as a necessary evil.’

  Gwytha grinned back at him and made a rude gesture very few Roman ladies would have known, and the seriousness dissolved in their laughter.

  * * *

  August faded to September, and September to October, with no further word of the new Emperor’s activities other than confirmation of the rumor that he was indeed pulling back the eastern frontier of the Empire. The games in his honor lasted all through September, and Licinius spent much of his time with the black eyes and broken heads of exuberant legionaries with largesse to spend and fine fall weather to spend it in. Venus Julia did a thriving business, and the wineshops and beer stalls laid in extra casks. The harvest celebrations of the tribes and the approach of Samhain added to the festival atmosphere.

  Gwytha’s baby was born, as predicted, two days before Samhain, the Night of the Dead, when the world made ready for winter and the shades of the dead walked free in it, bringing good fortune to those of their descendants who honored them properly.

  ‘Get the centurion! And Licinius the Surgeon!’ Januaria took one look at Gwytha and sent a village urchin scurrying through drifts of fallen leaves up the road to the fort.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Gwytha gasped.

  ‘Of course you are, my dear, but it’s as much as my life is worth not to send for the surgeon. He’s told me so often enough. Now you lie still and hang onto me, there’s my good girl.’

  Licinius came in half an hour, brisk, professional, and comforting. But Justin was on duty, and by the time he could get away, it was over.

  He came flying down the road, still in armor, terrified at the idea that something might go wrong, only to be met at the door by Licinius. At the sight of the surgeon, blood-spattered and weary, Justin turned white.

  ‘There’s always blood at a birthing, you idiot,’ Licinius said. ‘Januaria, come in here! Give this man his baby before he faints.’

  She bustled in and Justin found himself holding a small howling bundle with a wrinkled monkey’s face.

  ‘They all look like that when they’re born,’ Licinius said, laughing. ‘That’s your son, Justin. He’ll improve with age, I assure you.’

  ‘Nonsense! He is very beautiful.’ Januaria took the baby away indignantly. ‘You are dirty, Centurion. Go and wash and then you may hold him again.’

  Justin shook himself out of his state of shock. ‘Gwytha?’

  ‘Asleep,’ Licinius said. ‘You may go and look for yourself, but don’t wake her.’

  ‘Thank you. I… Licinius, don’t go yet. Get Januaria to give you something to drink. I won’t be long.’ He walked slowly into the bedroom and stood looking down at his wife. She was asleep, her brow beaded with sweat and her face weary. The linens had been changed, and her brown hair spilled out on the white pillow in a wave. He pulled the covers up around her, and she opened her eyes.

  ‘He is going to have your nose,’ she said, smiling up at him, and then she was asleep again.

  XIII

  Aurelius Rufus

  Hadrian had done something after all. Seated at a makeshift desk in a marching camp in Syria on his way to Nicomedia, he had taken a long hard look at the map of the Empire, the record of Rome’s domination of barbarian tribes and ancient civilizations alike. Then he had taken pen and ink and inscribed his orders in sweeping lines on the map itself. And the Parthian campaign was over.

  Then, his grey face austere in the twilight, he had begun his work of reassignment…

  ‘… To Britain as Governor, Q. Pompeius Falco, reassigned from Lower Moesia…

  ‘… To Legio IX Hispana, Aurelius Rufus, as Legate…’

  And privately to both of them, ‘Get up there and stop the rot.’

  * * *

&
nbsp; The Optio’s hammer rang sharp in the morning air, and Justin paused to read the proclamation. He had just come from a briefing in the Legate’s office where the change of command had been announced. Metius Lupus had served nearly five years with the Ninth and was more than happy to be recalled. He had merely announced that the new commander would be arriving within the month, and dismissed them. Now, feet propped on his desk and hands clasped behind his head, he was hoping that the weather would hold clear for a winter crossing to Gaul, the first leg of a pleasant journey back to Rome.

  Q. Pompeius Falco… Aurelius Rufus… names on a proclamation, unknown or known only by hearsay. But something was being done! And Justin had heard that weakened lines were being strengthened elsewhere in the Empire, and the eastern rebellions summarily dealt with. It was a beginning, and Justin turned home with a lighter mind than he had had in some time.

  The situation had grown worse than ever over the autumn months. The bonuses and games in Hadrian’s honor had carried spirits on a high tide for a while, but then the celebration was over, leaving flat dissatisfaction. The restlessness had begun to grow again as the boredom of the winter months progressed. The ‘on report’ list was lengthy with cases of malingering and outright insubordination, each incident seeming to trigger another. There were a frightening number of cases of brawling, and one horror of an incident in which a legionary had tried to knife his centurion and been killed by him instead. The centurion, whose nerve was completely blown, had hastily been posted elsewhere and as little noise made of the incident as possible, but the blow to morale had been shattering.

  Justin and Hilarion, wrestling with their own men, found it harder and harder to maintain effective discipline in the face of other cohorts that were growing dangerously out of control. Even Favonius and Martius were plainly growing worried, but the months of neglect had already done their work, and they found that their commands had become precarious. The legionary who had been killed by his own centurion had been of Martius’s cohort, and Martius’s other officers walked gingerly now.