Touching my heels to Achilles’s flanks, I hastened on for that last half-mile of my journey, a journey that had in truth begun all those weeks ago when Tacitus had arrived at my quarters back in Corduba. As I came closer and closer to that indomitable wall, I remember thinking that this was my new home.
‘Halt! Who goes there?’ was the predictable shout from the battlements.
‘Senator Severus. I come from Governor Rufus’s column,’ I shouted back.
For a moment I was worried that he didn’t believe me, but then an almighty groaning and creaking announced my right to enter as the solid wooden doors were prised open.
Castrum Mogontiacum, as it ought to be called, is not your typical legionary fort, for the simple reason that it has to accommodate not one legion but two, and some auxiliary units as well. Whereas in some parts of the empire two separate camps would have been built to guard a strategic place, here it made more sense to have a single impregnable stronghold to safeguard one of the province’s few bridges over the Rhine. Everything that you would expect to find inside a normal legionary camp was there, but its mirror image lay on the other side of the east–west street that cut the camp in half. The camp was very quiet, but that was only natural as Rufus had nearly emptied the place to put down the Gauls’ rebellion. The barracks on my left, with their long rows of whitewashed walls, stood empty, waiting for their occupants to return. The granary on the north side of the street would have been similarly depleted. Grain was hoarded to provide food for the legions while on the march. You see, we had discovered long ago that confiscating it from the locals was rather unpopular, and instead the empire paid vast sums to fill the military granaries and the bellies of her soldiers, which kept the big grain merchants happy.
The few men who were about eyed me interestedly. I surmised that newcomers riding a horse that was worth several years of a legionary’s salary were not a regular occurrence. I kept my chin high and trotted on by, pretending not to be affected by their persistent stares. My eyes were fixed on the principia, the central hub of the entire camp. Two impeccably turned out guards stood on either side of a rather shabby wooden door. Swinging out of the saddle, I made sure that the horse would be attended to before going in.
Unlike outside, the principia was full of activity. It always was, and always will be, even if there are no soldiers. Clerks scuttled busily about clutching armfuls of scrolls, little wax tablets dangling from a leather thong round their wrists, far too busy to notice the stranger who had entered their administrative sanctum, and who can blame them? Rosters need arranging, applications for everything from compassionate leave to permits to trade in camp need approval, grain prices must be tallied, armourers’ requisitions need examining, dicta from on high must be relayed. Eventually I managed to stop a clerk by standing in his path, and when he tried to dodge round me I sidestepped and blocked him again.
‘Where can I find the camp prefect?’ I asked.
The clerk, his head just peeking out over a pile of paperwork which he clasped to his bosom, gave a muffled answer: ‘Through the door behind you, but he gave orders not to be disturbed.’
‘He will want to see me.’
‘In that case,’ the clerk said, ‘would you mind taking these?’
Without waiting for a reply he heaved his burden into my arms, smiled his thanks and left me to it. I didn’t want to kick up a fuss; how was he to know I was the new commander? Instead I turned and gingerly felt for the door with my foot, my sight almost totally blocked by the load of documents. Finding it, I gave the door a prod with my toe, the door screeched open, and I manoeuvred my way into the office.
A sidelong glance revealed that the room was deserted. Unkempt and deserted. Tablets were scattered about the place, over the floor, on the desk – but what caught my eye was a tablet that seemed to be levitating just behind the desk. Even stranger was the fact that it was bobbing up and down rhythmically. I shuffled quietly and crab-like towards it, so as to see where I was going, and dropped the papers on to the desk with a heavy thud.
The tablets went flying as the prefect tumbled from his makeshift bed, the tablet falling off his stomach. Cursing, he got to his feet in an ungainly fashion, bleary-eyed and foul-mouthed.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at, son? I’ll have you broken to the ranks! I’ll—’
I raised my hand to silence him. ‘Another word, Prefect, and I’ll have you on a charge of insubordination, and sleeping on duty.’
‘What do you mean? I only take orders from the Legate Cotta and his senatorial tribune.’
‘Well, now you only take orders from the Legate Severus and the senatorial tribune. The legate fell in battle.’
‘Cotta dead? I don’t believe it.’
‘Afraid so. I can’t say I knew the man, I’m just the messenger. But I’m also his replacement.’
He looked puzzled at that. ‘His replacement? But surely those decisions are taken in Rome?’
‘By the emperor, yes, I know. However, the Senate has declared Nero a public enemy, and I don’t see anyone challenging Galba’s authority.’
‘You mean Galba appointed you to this command? But why?’ The prefect blushed. ‘Sorry, sir, it’s not like me to question my superiors.’
‘That’s quite all right…’
The man understood why I had paused: ‘Tuscus, sir.’
‘…Tuscus. These are special circumstances. I was serving as a quaestor in Corduba, and Galba sent a letter of recommendation to Rufus once he heard of the vacancy. If you don’t believe me, here’s the general’s seal.’
I reached into the folds of my cloak, took the seal and set it on the desk. I could have told him why Galba had entrusted me with command on the Rhine, but I had no desire to publicize my involvement with Vindex, so it was easy to tell from the look on Tuscus’s face that he thought I was just some puppy of Galba’s, eager and obedient.
‘I realize I’m a little younger than most legates, but I served with some distinction as a tribune under General Paulinus in Britannia.’
‘Not that Severus? The man who charged Boadicea’s army when the legions began to break?’
I smiled modestly. Any doubts that Tuscus had were instantly dismissed, and he threw me as smart a salute as you’ll see outside Rome. Prefects are a surly lot, being the bravest and best of centurions and having survived long years of service, and despite their age they are the most dedicated soldiers in the army. Tuscus’s salute was high praise indeed.
‘Well, sir, what can I do you for?’ he asked. His whole demeanour was warm and friendly, almost unrecognizable from that of the grouchy old man whom I’d woken just five minutes ago.
‘I’d like to get settled in before the column arrives, quarters sorted, that sort of thing. It’s a long time since I’ve been stationed in a fort; I’ve rather forgotten what camp life is like.’
Tuscus scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘I can get you kit and the like, sir, but quarters will be a bit difficult.’
‘Why?’
‘We haven’t any rooms to spare, and General Cotta’s wife, or widow I suppose, uses the same rooms as he did.’
‘Ah, that’s a bit delicate. Could you put me in one of the junior officers’ quarters for the time being? I can move in once Cotta’s wife is ready to return to Rome.’
‘Thank you, sir, that would make my life a lot easier.’
‘I’m not here to make your life easier, Prefect, but these are rather awkward circumstances. Now, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your strenuous duties, but perhaps you could show me to the lady’s quarters?’
‘Of course, sir. You will forgive me about earlier, sir? Just resting my old eyes, you see, sir.’
‘Don’t worry, man, as it’s my first day I’ll forgive and forget. So long as you serve me well, of course.’
* * *
Tuscus led the way through the camp to the officers’ quarters. Despite the mass of troops who were away, there were still enough soldiers
about the place to keep the camp functioning. We passed stables, smithies and foul-smelling kitchens until we came to a halt by a hefty-looking door, and the prefect took his leave, no doubt to embark upon the backlog of neglected paperwork. My arrival had really stirred him into action.
I was just gazing up at my future home and noting the second storey, a rarity in any Roman camp, when the door opened, and a wiry figure jumped in surprise.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but you frightened me out of my skin.’
There was something I couldn’t place about his accent. It was so fast and lilting, and he kept chatting on, sorry for getting in my way, wouldn’t I like to come in and so on. What confused me more was that he was very much at ease in Latin, but was clearly no Roman. His pale skin and wiry tangle of black hair was one giveaway, and the other was the tablet that hung around his neck, marking him out as a slave. But this man was not the submissive creature that most slaves are. His demeanour was upright and supremely self-confident. I told him brusquely that I had come to see his mistress; the word Cotta was clearly stamped on his tablet.
That shut him up for a moment. He led me into a small anteroom before knocking gently on the next door.
‘Who is it?’ a voice called from the room beyond.
‘An officer to see you, mistress.’
‘Very well, send him in.’
* * *
I was shown through into a modest-looking triclinium. The simple whitewashed walls lent a cold and unwelcoming feel to the room, and there was little in the way of furniture. But I was forgetting that this wasn’t some fine villa in Rome, but a military base on the banks of the Rhine. A lady reclined on one of the three couches, idly plucking at a bunch of grapes, a look of intense boredom etched on to her face. A few wrinkles betrayed her age, contrasting with the lustrous sheen to her chestnut hair and artful make-up. This was a proud Roman matron and no mistake.
‘You can tell that fool Tuscus that I won’t take no for an answer.’
‘My lady?’
‘I mean, is it too much to ask that the army should pay to keep a legate and his wife in the manner to which they are accustomed? It’s not as though I’m after a house of our own. Just a few silks and cushions to make this place habitable.’
This was a woman used to giving commands and having them obeyed instantly, and looking into those imperious eyes, I didn’t have the courage to break the news right away. I decided to change the subject.
‘Surely having your own slaves here makes life tolerable for you, my lady? What about the one outside?’
‘Him? He’s not for me but for my husband. Ever since Castor died last winter my husband hasn’t had a body slave. I decided to buy him a novelty for his birthday.’
‘How is he a novelty?’
She looked bemused. ‘Why, an educated barbarian of course! Apparently he’s from some island beyond Britannia, but he can read and write! Publius will be delighted, he loves surprises…’
All this time I had stood still, hands respectfully behind my back. Steeling myself, I decided now was the moment to break the news.
‘I should tell you, my lady, that strictly speaking I’m not an officer from this camp.’
‘Strictly speaking? You either are or you aren’t. Which are you?’
‘I’ve been sent as a replacement, my lady. I come with news from Verginius Rufus’s column.’
At once she sat bolt upright, eyes widening. ‘From Verginius Rufus?’ she echoed.
‘Yes. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your husband fell in battle against the Gauls.’
‘Publius is dead?’
I nodded. She sat there dumbly, staring into the distance. I didn’t want to break the silence. At last she looked at me, sniffing heavily, and asked, ‘How did he die?’
‘I’m sorry, all I know is that he is dead. I am sure that the governor will explain everything as soon as he arrives.’
This was not exactly the time to tell her that I would be obliged if she could move out. The most tactful thing to do would be to leave quietly. I took a few backward steps, and let myself out.
* * *
The next few days were filled with tedious bits of bureaucracy. Signing receipts for parade armour, battle dress, quarters, sorting out the details of pay and rations, familiarizing myself with my new office and its clerks, it was a nightmare. Things were made even more complicated by the death of Cotta. Normally there is a simple handover. The contracts, leases and so forth are brought to the chief clerk, who wipes the incumbent’s name from them and writes the new man’s name on top. Cutting corners if you like, but we didn’t conquer the empire by red tape alone. Taking up my new command in the middle of Cotta’s regime threw the clerks into turmoil. New forms had to be drawn up for everything, and I tried to be out of the office as much as possible to spare myself the anxieties of my overburdened staff. If ever you think of commanding a legion, hope to the gods that your predecessor is alive and well for the handover.
It had occurred to me that I would be in need of a body slave, and after a respectful period I offered the remainder of Galba’s gold in exchange for the dark-haired fellow I had met on my first day in Mogontiacum. After all, he would be of more use to me than to Cotta’s wife. He arrived for my inspection one evening, after I had spent the day giving Achilles some exercise and learning a bit more about the surrounding country. I was just easing myself into a chair in my temporary quarters, aching after a long ride, when there was a knock at the door.
‘Master?’ a voice called.
‘Come in.’
The slave entered, leaving the door open.
‘Close the door, man,’ I told him. ‘You’re letting in a draught.’
Apologizing, he did as he was told. Then he turned back to me, clasped his hands behind his back and stared fixedly ahead, as though there was something interesting on the wall behind me. I was used to this behaviour, having seen it on parade a thousand times or more. This was the posture of a confident man in the presence of his superior, and it puzzled me that this slave should ooze authority from every pore.
‘The lady Cotta tells me that you are a novelty.’
The slave chuckled. ‘Depends how you define a novelty, master.’
The cheek of the man startled me. No slave had ever answered back to me before. He must have seen my reaction, as he hastily explained.
‘I’m sorry, master, it’s just my manner. It is true, I can read and write, but only in Latin. My first master thought that I would fetch a higher price if I was educated. You know, an educated barbarian.’
‘Who was your owner?’ I asked.
‘The legate of the Ninth Legion, master, Petillius Cerialis.’
‘That’s a coincidence,’ I remarked. Cerialis had commanded the Ninth while I was in Britannia with the Twentieth.
‘I take it you weren’t born a slave, then?’
‘No, master, the legate took my mother and me captive when the Ninth defeated the Britons on Mona.’
So that’s what Cotta’s wife had meant by an island off Britannia. Mona is a savage place, lying off the western coast. As Roman power expanded on the mainland, the legendary Celtic druids had retreated with some of Britannia’s finest warriors to Mona. Suetonius Paulinus had sent the Ninth to take the island, partly because the druids were the chief priests of a foul, barbaric religion, but also to break the spirit of the Britons by destroying their last stronghold.
‘You can’t have been more than a child at the time. So he just picked you at random and had you taught to read and write?’
‘No, master, I already knew my letters. Just not in Latin.’
‘I thought you said Latin was the only language you’d learned?’
‘Since becoming a slave, sir, yes. My native language was the one I’d learned first.’
‘The Celtic of the Britons then?’
He shook his head. ‘No, sir, my mother and I were exiles from Hibernia.’
The slave’s history was getting
stranger and stranger. It probably didn’t help that he was telling his story back to front. Every time I thought I knew who he was, he revealed another layer. If my new slave really was from Hibernia, that would explain why I hadn’t recognized his accent. After my service in Britannia, I had met men from tribes all over the land, but none quite like this one. I doubt that you, reader, will have even heard of Hibernia. I have been further north than most, and still I have only heard tales of that land. It is an island, beyond even Britannia, and its people are even wilder than those who fought with Boadicea. No Roman has ever been there, that’s for sure. There are no myths of legendary wealth to draw him there, only a fearsome reputation, befitting a land at the very edge of the world. Even the British druids fear their savage brethren across the sea.
I was sore, and ready for supper in the mess, so I did not question the slave further. I quickly listed his duties, and pointed to the corner that would be his sleeping place until I moved into my new quarters. Before going off for my meal, I realized that I had forgotten to ask my new slave’s name. He replied to my question with something guttural and unpronounceable.
‘You must have a slave name that I can pronounce. What does it say here?’ I grabbed the tablet from around his neck and brought it close enough to read out the name: Totavalas.
The Last Caesar Page 19
