‘Severa, my dear, it is good to see you. We Claudias must stick together after all.’ Smiling warmly, the red-headed woman came from behind him, stepped up to Claudia Severa and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘My name is Claudia, as you may have heard, although in my experience most men rarely listen to anything said by a woman; probably too complicated for their little minds. Claudia Enica to give it in full and avoid confusion with dear Severa here. Or you may prefer red Claudia and green Claudia if that is simpler for you.’ A sweeping gesture indicated her own sea-green dress and the other woman’s red. ‘Though perhaps there may be confusion given the shade of my hair. Not very Roman, is it, although I should guess the Domitii Ahenobarbi had the same affliction or distinction as you prefer. Not Nero, though, dare I mention him, even though he came from that line. Well, sir, if you are still confused, perhaps tall Claudia and short Claudia, or nice Claudia and Claudia with goddess-like beauty – my friend here of course, or should I dare you to choose like Paris? Or shall we stay with the mos mairum – our ancestors by adoption if not blood – and stay with Claudia Prima and Secunda?’
Claudia Severa was trying not to giggle. ‘Peace, my friend, you must give poor Ferox a chance.’
‘Why should I, Prima, my friend?’ she said, looking him up and down. ‘He does not appear frail.’
Ferox guessed that she was a year or two past twenty, and the hairstyle she had adopted was even more ornate than Claudia Severa’s with pearls dotted along the green ribbon arranging the coils of her hair and between some of the ringlets. She was quite tall, long boned like most of her tribe, with a slim face and surprisingly full-lipped mouth. More pearls were in her neat ears. Her eyes were pale, more green than brown, and they continued to inspect him. Her Latin carried no accent, and was precise and sophisticated even as the words galloped out. The dress was of shimmering silk, expensive, although modestly cut with a high neck and, like all the other ladies in the room, no sleeves. Her arms were fashionably white, although lacking the slight hint of plumpness considered perfect in a lady. A Greek sculptor would have wept with joy if he had carved limbs like that on the statue of a growing boy.
‘My lady, it is an honour to meet you.’
‘I shall not bother to deny the truth,’ she replied.
Claudia Severa chuckled, and then remembered where she was. ‘You are as mischievous as Cupid, my dear. So to restore decorum I shall formally introduce Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius, and a friend of mine and of Brocchus, and dear Cerialis and his wife.’
‘I have heard of you,’ Enica said. ‘Still, it may be that the worst stories are not wholly true.’
‘They probably are,’ he said, and thought he saw delight in her eyes.
‘Ferox, yes, now it comes back to me. Your grandfather was Lord of the Hills, or whatever it is you Silures call your greatest chief.’
‘He was, my lady.’
‘And you do not have kings, only princes and chiefs.’
‘Something like that. Now we have Rome and peace, or so I am told.’
‘As have we all.’ Enica smiled. Her teeth were neat and very white against her rouged lips. She put her head slightly on one side as she looked at him. ‘You answer, but you do not ask? Is it then true that Silures simply take whatever they want, not bothering to ask first?’
‘We try our best, my lady.’
The legate’s chamberlain pounded his staff on the flagstone floor for silence and then announced that dinner was about to be served, inviting guests to take their places. There were three triclinia, three sets each of three couches laid in a U-shape, the open side to allow slaves to bring in successive platters. Ferox was unsurprised to find himself with the least prestigious. Arviragus was with Crassus, Sulpicia Lepidina, Ovidius, the three military tribunes and a squat figure he had learned was the procurator of the province. Enica and Claudia Severa were among decurions of Londinium, a number of prefects and a couple more women he did not know. The last group had a couple of senior centurions, neither inclined much to speak, and traders and other local worthies. The wife of one, an elderly lady with a vague expression, was convinced they had met before, and spent most of the meal trying to work out where.
‘Were you ever in Colonia Agrippiniensis?’
‘I fear not, my lady.’
‘Noricum, perhaps. We lived there for a couple of years.’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Was it here in Londinium, oh, a good thirty years ago it must be.’
‘I regret that I was but a child then, my lady.’
‘Of course, of course, my apologies, I meant no offence.’ Her husband, happy to be relieved of the responsibility of amusing his wife, conversed enthusiastically with another trader on the opposite couch.
Ferox listened politely, stole glances at Sulpicia Lepidina, and now and then at the red-haired Brigantian princess, since that presumably was what she must be. Once he looked to see that she was already watching him. She shook her head like a mother disappointed at a small boy surreptitiously dropping food he did not like.
The dinner ended, and Ferox wondered whether Vindex and Gannascus had got into trouble. He had said that it was fine for them to explore, but did wonder whether they were ready for a big town. Or indeed whether Londinium was ready for them. He hoped that he would not have to go looking for them.
Near the end a slave slipped him a small roll of papyrus, tied tight and sealed with unmarked wax. As servants fussed to bring cloaks and the company prepared to leave, for just a moment Sulpicia Lepidina caught his eye.
To his relief, all of his companions were back at the house, smelling strongly of beer and already snoring away. By the light of a lamp he opened the letter.
I need help. Come when I call.
VIII
The archives were housed in several buildings in and around an even older fort than the one they had passed on the way into the city. This one had had its walls and most of its buildings demolished, and the rest converted much like the old base at Lindum. The largest building of the archive was obviously two old barrack blocks knocked together, with numbers painted by the door to each room. Inside were rows of shelves, with just enough space to squeeze between them. Greek letters and Latin numbers were painted on the wood so that each slot had its own identity, and held a single folded wooden tablet. On most the original seal was long since broken, and a piece of ribbon fixed, the colour depending on the year it arrived. A notation on the side of the tablet was made each time its content was amended. In theory this meant that it should be straightforward enough to find any document, if you knew what category it should fall into and when it was written. Which was all fine, if only Ferox had had any clear idea of where to start.
The orders from the legate helped a great deal. A gift of an amphora of wine to the speculator responsible for overall supervision of the archives, another slightly smaller one to the beneficiarius who spent most of his days there, and gifts of money to buy a few drinks to the three exacti who actually ran the place had done almost as much to oil the wheels of bureaucracy.
‘Just like being back in Rome,’ Ovidius had said when Ferox suggested that they take this precaution. ‘If only the sun would get warm I could feel right at home! By the way, I had a bright idea during the night. Acco says he is the last of the true druids, does he not?’ In truth that was what others said, and the priest chose not to deny. ‘Well, perhaps I ought to start with the correspondence and especially the reports written by Suetonius Paulinus? After all, he was the fellow who did more than anyone else to crush the cult. Crossed over to destroy their most sacred shrines on Mona – is that how you say it?’
‘Yes, it is. And, yes, that is as good a starting place as any. Agricola went back twenty years later, so you may want to take a look at what he said as well.’
‘Splendid!’ Ovidius seemed genuinely excited by the task. They had decided that the old man would begin searching in the rooms where records on papyrus were kept, since he was more used to such thi
ngs than the smaller army documents written often on wood and full of the abbreviations and other pieces of obscure military terminology. Ferox suspected that there was slightly more chance of finding something useful among the papyri than in the mundane reports and returns that composed most of the wooden archive. Yet he doubted that they would come across anything. He wished that Ovidius had not mentioned Mona, a dark place even after all these years. A fear had been growing within him that he might have to go there and speaking the name aloud was like hearing the baying of hounds on his trail.
The exactus who guided Ferox was young, but limped and had a scar running across his cheek and onto his mouth, which gave him an odd whistling lisp.
‘My cohort was up north two years ago when the legate defeated that mad priest. You were there too, weren’t you, sir?’
‘I was there.’
The lad was eager and talkative. ‘Thought I’d be discharged from the legion for a while, but thank the gods I was passed fit enough, seeing as how I can read and write a good hand. This is a good posting and there’s a decent chance of promotion. Guess I’ll never do a hard march or cut turf for rampart again, but it’s not a bad life all round.’
Ferox began by asking for routine reports from unit commanders back from Suetonius Paulinus’ day, feeling that he may as well follow Ovidius’ suggestion.
The archive clerk led him to a row of doors. ‘Yes, sir. These rooms along here. Look for red tabs that far back, although we’ve used the colour four times since then. They come around every ten years. Legions in those rooms, by their number. Cohorts and alae in the ones next, in that order and by their numbers and designations. Things a bit confused from those days, though, sir, what with the rebellion and all that. A lot of things were lost.’
‘I can imagine,’ Ferox said, before realising that irony was not something familiar to the exactus. ‘Could you find me all mentions of druids or temples?’
‘Sorry, sir. Only filed by unit and date. Begging your pardon, but no call for anything else, sir. Now, sir, shall I help you start with the legions?’
Four hours later and Ferox had learned nothing of value. It was easy to get sucked into following a story. There were several references to his own people, the Silures, and even a mention of his grandfather, the Lord of the Hills being labelled an ‘old villain’ by the legate of II Augusta. With effort, he did not let himself be distracted, and went back to scanning reports, often handing them back to the clerk for re-shelving within moments as it became obvious that there was nothing worthwhile there. Like the barracks they had once been, the rooms were gloomy, and they needed to refill the pair of lamps they were using a couple of times. At last Ferox gave up, and telling the exactus and the rest of the staff that he would be back tomorrow morning, he set out for the Temple of the Divine Vespasian and a meeting with one of the priests.
It was a grey day, spotting with rain, but that did nothing to deter the crowds thronging the street. Wherever there was space, even on the sides of the little alleys between the blocks of houses, someone set up stall and was trying to sell something. Ferox had to push away two persistent whores who plied their trade in a poorly curtained alcove just around the corner from the archives. As he came onto the major streets things looked both more respectable and more expensive. Ferox was wearing tunic and breeches, boots and a heavy cloak whose hood provided some protection from the rain. He carried his vitis to show that he was a centurion, and if necessary a flick of the cloak would reveal his military belt with gladius and pugio.
Even in the crowd, Gannascus stood out, a head or more taller than those around him, and when he spotted the centurion he let out a deep below of delight. People moved out of the way of his determined progress, and soon Vindex and the others appeared, along with several more big men wearing military cloaks. They were Batavians, led by Longinus, now sporting a thick grey beard.
‘We found some friends,’ Vindex explained. ‘So perhaps you could help me out with some money.’
‘What happened to the coins I gave you yesterday? There was enough for ten days.’
‘The dice was loaded,’ Gannascus boomed.
‘And the women were expensive,’ Vindex added. ‘Everything costs a lot here.’ In spite of his recent marriage, the scout’s enthusiasm for other women had not slackened.
Ferox dipped into the purse on his belt. ‘Try to keep them out of too much trouble,’ he asked Longinus. The veteran nodded. ‘I’ll see if I can join you later on. Where will you be?’
‘By the river.’ Vindex nodded at the huge German. ‘He likes watching the ships.’
Ferox hurried on, crossing the wooden planked bridge over the stream that flowed down into the main river. The press was thicker there, until some burly slaves used threats and some blows of their sticks to clear a path for a pair of litters. His size, as much as the centurion’s cane he carried, prevented them from trying to force him out of the way. As the first litter passed he received a far softer greeting.
Claudia Severa peeked out of the gap between the curtains, then turned and said something. A moment later Sulpicia Lepidina’s face appeared beside her. There were smiles and greetings, and an invitation to visit them on the next day around noon. ‘The House of Verus in the third quarter. You must come,’ Claudia Severa urged him. ‘The children always love to see you.’ Ferox could read nothing in the other woman’s face to explain her note, but that did not surprise him.
‘I shall surely come,’ he said, hoping to reassure Sulpicia Lepidina that he was at her command.
The slaves clearing a path were facing pressure from an impatient crowd. One of the women called out and the litter bearers began carrying it forward again. As the second one passed it too stopped, and another head appeared, this one small, dark skinned and with a mop of blond hair that must be a wig.
‘Ugly man,’ the little man said in a piercing squeak. ‘My mistress has something to say to you.’
‘Who is your mistress?’ he asked.
‘What do you care? By the look of you, you should be grateful for anything. She’s easy and already on her back. What more do you want?’
There was the sound of a slap and the dwarf shot back inside. Another slap followed. Ferox turned away.
‘Hoy!’ The dwarf had reappeared, wig precariously hanging over one eye. ‘Please come over or she’ll have me beaten again.’
Ferox gave in and went to the curtained compartment. The little man had vanished again, and he opened the curtains enough to see inside. Claudia Enica was stretched out on cushions, her arms back behind her head, showing off a figure swathed again in shimmering silk. Jewels glittered at her throat, at her wrists and in her ornately arranged hair. Her face was heavily made up, managing just to stay on the right side of good taste and fashion.
‘You are not easily intrigued,’ she said, treating him to a languid smile.
‘I am a plain man, and a mere soldier. The ways of princesses are new to me.’
‘A princess is still a woman, and you cannot tell me that a rough soldier has no desires. You have such a big sword.’ As Ferox leaned in his cloak had parted and the pommel and hilt of his gladius poked out. Before he could answer she went on. ‘Do you like my whisperer?’ The dwarf was crouched in the far corner of the compartment. ‘His name is Achilles and I shall most probably order him beaten tonight to make sure that he is not spoiled. They say that Livia, wife of the divine Augustus, doted on such creatures and she was a Claudian. Her husband hated them, though.’ Achilles darted around and stuck out his tongue. ‘I must say that I am coming to the same opinion.’ Enica lifted a foot and kicked the dwarf with as much force as she could muster, so that her slipper came loose. Then she stuck out her own tongue. ‘Little beast.’
Ferox coughed. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but I am late for an appointment and must hurry.’
She grabbed his wrist, surprising him with her speed. ‘Now that is not courteous from a Roman officer or a prince of the Silures. Or would the Silure in you
just slaughter Achilles here and bear me off over your shoulder? Come now, do not be a disappointment. I believe that we shall be friends and good ones at that. What is it they say about the Brigantes?’ This time the smile was genuine and less of a pout.
‘That they talk too much.’ He did not add, much like the Romans.
‘We do. But some of what we say is worth hearing, and much of the rest is amusing, and I am also good at listening. I must go now – for you see the lady must end any meeting of this sort. I heard the others extend an invitation. Do come and see us, for I have rented the house and they and their families are my guests. Come at any time, whether they are there or not. I must speak to you about the robbery at my grandmother’s house. You were there, were you not? Yes, I thought so. So come. If you like you can always kick Achilles around the floor for amusement. Walk on, you dolts!’ The last command was loud and aimed at the bearers.
Ferox walked on, slightly resentful as it half felt he had been given an order along with the slaves, and it was almost a relief not to run into anyone else he knew. A group of urchins surrounded him at one point, one trying to open his purse while another lifted the pugio from its scabbard. He smacked the largest with his palm and waved his cane at the others to drive them off.
The Temple of the Divine Vespasian stood at the corner of two wide streets, behind the high plastered and whitewashed walls of its precinct. A doorman sat cross-legged by the open gate, and simply nodded when Ferox explained who he was. In the courtyard were statues of Vespasian and Titus either side of the steps leading up to the high-roofed temple with its pillared front. On the right were Augustus and Claudius, and on the left Nerva stood alone. Ferox wondered whether the plinth, perhaps even the body of the statue itself, had originally been planned to hold the image of Domitian. That emperor’s images had never much resembled the real man, disguising that restless energy and the burning rage that led equally to cold cruelty or outbursts of appalling anger. The face of Augustus here was of a handsome, eager youth, not the old man he had become. It was hard to imagine so serene a face being disturbed by the antics of his wife’s dwarfs and other freaks kept for entertainment by the fashionable. Pretending that their best rulers became gods was one of the odder affectations of the Romans. Even after all these years, Ferox could not tell whether they were serious about it, or if it was yet another piece of flattery that everyone was too polite to question.
Brigantia Page 10
