The Hadrian Legacy

by Gavin Chappell

  Flaminius rose. ‘I’d better go, old friend,’ he told Karus.

  Karus lay back on his couch and waved a petulant hand. ‘Well, if that’s how you feel about my hospitality! All the more nosh for me. Goodbye.’

  No doubt he was glad to see the back of him. Flaminius followed Junius Italicus out of the villa. ‘Sorry to break up the party, sir,’ the centurion said. ‘But the Chief says it’s urgent. The procurator of Britain’s been murdered.’

  ‘How tragic. But what’s it got to do with me?’ Flaminius said, mounting. ‘I’m on indefinite leave, aren’t I?’ He frowned as Junius Italicus swung into his own horse’s saddle. ‘I see you got your own job back easily enough.’

  Junius Italicus smiled, and Flaminius mounted the other horse. ‘It wasn’t that easy, actually sir,’ he called as they rode off down the gravel drive, leaving Karus’ villa behind them. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem to be doing pretty well for yourself.’ He indicated the villas that rose from magnificent gardens on either side of the track.

  ‘I have powerful friends,’ Flaminius replied. ‘Or at least acquaintances. Karus and I were never that close, but he’s the best connected chum I could turn to after that bad business in Hadrian’s villa. You and me both came out of it badly.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Why does the Chief want me?’

  ‘Says you’ve got the right experience,’ Junius Italicus replied. ‘You know the country.’

  Flaminius cast his mind back to his days in Britain.

  He’d met the Chief there, although Probus hadn’t been chief of anything back then, just a Commissary centurion attached to the Ninth Legion. It was less innocuous than it sounded; the Commissary itself was a front for an empire-wide spy network reporting only to the emperor. Now Probus was the Chief, running the whole operation. Flaminius had seen little of him since he’d made the mistake of uncovering a plot against the emperor by his own wife.

  He tried to sound Junius Italicus out as they proceeded north along the Appian Way. But the centurion was evasive, seeming to know little except that Britain and its procurator’s murder would be involved.

  Britain had been a cold, harsh world far beyond the pleasant confines of Flaminius’ Roman upbringing. Life had been cheap, betrayal common. Painted savages had been his friends, distinguished Roman citizens had become fierce enemies. The tribune had developed a fondness for the natives, but it all seemed like a dream now, fading, hazy.

  A dream or a nightmare.

  —3—

  Rome, Castra Peregrina, 21 March

  On reaching the suburbs of Rome, they went on foot up the Caelian Hill to the Castra Peregrina, main base of the Commissary. The camp squatted amidst tenement flats across the street from a station of the Watch, foursquare, grey, and implacable, like an outpost on the edge of Empire, not an administrative centre at its pulsing heart.

  Junius Italicus led Flaminius across the deserted parade ground and down the winding passageways of headquarters until they reached a small, undistinguished looking office door. Junius Italicus knocked on this respectfully and stepped back.

  ‘Come,’ came a gruff voice. Flaminius found himself grinning from ear to ear. Junius Italicus announced him and showed him into the simple office within where Probus sat at the desk, looking up impatiently from a sheaf of reports. The Chief straightened in his chair, bald head gleaming in the lantern light.

  ‘Tribune,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d never make it. Sit down. Pour us some wine, Italicus, and get out.’

  As the door closed behind the centurion, Flaminius sipped at the wine and winced. The fermented grape juice Probus drank tasted particularly sour after he’d had his palate spoilt rotten by Karus’ cellar. It might come in handy if he wanted to polish his sword blade…

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Flaminius asked. ‘The procurator of Britain’s been killed…’

  ‘Murdered,’ Probus confirmed. ‘Assassinated by Gaulish auxiliaries. The one who killed him wore this about his neck.’

  He produced a small, oddly shaped stone. Flaminius inspected it gingerly. He looked up, shrugging.

  ‘A serpent’s egg,’ said Probus, his tone loading the words with strange significance.

  Flaminius knew little about natural history but he recognised a pebble when he saw one. ‘I’ve heard some tall stories about snakes,’ he said, ‘My nurse used to tell me a story about how they ate children whole, gave me nightmares…But hatching from stone?’

  ‘They’re also known as druid’s stones,’ Probus said. Flaminius felt a chill. The druids. Again, he was cast back to his time in Britain. ‘This was found on the body of the auxiliary who murdered the procurator.’

  ‘This stone was found on his body?’ Flaminius frowned. ‘But what does that mean? And how did he come to die? Overzealous legionaries?’

  ‘Overzealous auxiliaries,’ Probus said grimly. ‘His commanding officer cut him down straight after he had dealt the procurator a mortal blow.’

  He explained the events in some detail.

  ‘Isn’t that all a little suspicious?’ Flaminius said when the Chief had finished. ‘And the prefect died of poison—killed himself? He must have been implicated!’

  Probus clapped slowly. ‘I knew I could trust you to state the obvious,’ he said. ‘The medic suggested a massive dose of atropine poisoning. Atropine is easy to come by, even in Britain. This was a plot, and both the killer and the prefect who killed him were in on it…’

  ‘If they died straight after,’ said Flaminius, ‘what did they have to gain?’

  ‘Did you learn nothing of the druids while you were in Britain?’ Probus asked. ‘Or were you too busy hunting and wenching?’

  ‘I remember the druids,’ said Flaminius with a shudder. ‘One died at my feet. Your agent, as I recall.’

  Probus nodded. ‘One of our few successful attempts to infiltrate the druids,’ he said. ‘We still have no idea of how far their network spreads—Lugutorix wasn’t that highly initiated—but now it seems that Gaulish auxiliaries are involved, a troop attached to the Twentieth. Dumnorix’s Troop. You realise the implications?’

  ‘With Gaulish troops guarding the frontier?’ Flaminius said. ‘This giant garden wall the emperor’s building to keep barbarians out of his empire? Obviously it could be disastrous. In the words of the poet, who watches the watchmen? What’s happened to the rest of Dumnorix’s Troop?’

  ‘Confined to quarters,’ Probus said. ‘For the moment the late procurator’s personal guard is controlling that section of the frontier. A new procurator will be sent to replace the old one, and the auxiliaries are going to be investigated. We can’t have traitors guarding our frontiers.’

  Flaminius examined the serpent’s egg, the druid’s stone. ‘What’s the purpose of this object?’ he asked.

  Probus grunted. ‘Druids wear them for magical purposes. They’re supposed to make them able to win legal cases, and to go invisible.’

  ‘Invisible!’ Flaminius commented. ‘You mean this assassin thought no one would see him? Are these people mad?’

  Probus pursed his lips. ‘The druids have many strange and terrible beliefs,’ he said. ‘As well as invisibility, they believe in the efficacy of human sacrifice. They also say, like the Pythagoreans, that death is merely the turning point in a long life. That if they die here they will be reborn in the Otherworld, that if they die in the Otherworld they will be reborn here.’

  ‘They think they’re immortal,’ Flaminius murmured. ‘No wonder they’re so willing to die. But what could they achieve by killing the procurator? He’s just an official. He runs the finances of the province. Now, if it had been the governor…’

  ‘Platorius Nepos was in Eboracum at the time,’ Probus said. ‘That stickler won’t risk his neck on the frontier. Still, it was rash of the procurator to venture into dangerous territory. And yet no one would have expected the auxiliaries of all people to murder him.’

  ‘No one would expect Gaulish auxiliaries to be druids in disg
uise,’ Flaminius replied. ‘I don’t understand this. Surely the druids were all killed years ago? Apart from a few holdouts in Caledonia and the like…’

  ‘Druidic rites were forbidden under Roman law in Gaul long ago,’ Probus agreed. ‘Roman citizens were banned from participating in them at first, then they were made illegal even for Gauls. But Gaul was never the centre of the druid cult. That was always Britain, and the British druids stirred up the Gauls to rebel against Rome. Rome and druidry have always been at odds. There’s human sacrifice, for a start… We Romans made it illegal long ago.’

  ‘It’s still permissible, according to the Twelve Tablets.’ Flaminius had studied law when he was a youngster. ‘Practisers of witchcraft who hex farmers’ crops are supposed to be sacrificed to Ceres.’

  ‘That’s all forgotten about now,’ said Probus. ‘Few people practise witchcraft in Rome these days. The druids are another matter; they’re devoted to the dark arts.’

  ‘You say “are”,’ Flaminius said. ‘But I thought they were all wiped out. You said Britain was their centre, yes. Even while Boudicca was rebelling against Rome—and who stirred her up in the first place, I wonder? —the governor was in Mona, slaughtering them all. That was the end of the druids. The only place where they still make trouble is Caledonia, but that lot have been no trouble since Hadrian avenged the Ninth Legion. Until now, the frontier’s been quiet.’

  Probus nodded. ‘It’s revealing that these assassins should be Gauls rather than Caledonians. But the druids were not all killed, even in Gaul. The word was that when Rome burned, in Nero’s reign—a few years after the druids were slaughtered in their centre at Mona—the druids of Gaul prophesied a Gaulish empire that would rule the world.’

  Flaminius laughed. ‘That’ll be the day. But you mean there were still druids in Gaul in Nero’s day? That’s not what I’d heard.’

  Probus grunted. ‘A poor shadow of their former selves, meeting in secret in caves and at the heart of forests. There never was a Gaulish empire and there never will be; the Gauls are too poorly organised. But it hasn’t stop them from trying. They made one attempt while the empire was in anarchy after Nero’s suicide.’

  ‘You mean Civilis? But aren’t the Batavians German?’

  Flaminius had not spent all his time in Karus’ library reading trash like The Wonders beyond Thule; he’d also brushed up on recent history. As a boy, his tutor had gone no further than the fall of the Republic, and Flaminius had learnt little about what had happened since. Now he knew much more, including the rebellion of Julius Civilis, the Batavian who took advantage of the anarchy that followed the death of Nero to raise the standard of revolt, but it seemed that Probus was privy to secrets known to few.

  The Chief nodded. ‘Civilis drove out the legions from his homeland, and other German tribes like the Frisians joined in, but Gaulish auxiliaries led the revolt in Gaul as a whole. Veleda the witch—or was she a druidess? —prophesised success. But Vespasian put down the revolt. It was a failure. Now Gauls guard the frontiers of the empire, in Britain. Yet what was that Horace said about those who cross the sea? They change their sky but not their soul?’

  Flaminius’ eyes widened. Probus had also been reading! He took a sip of wine.

  ‘Don’t you think you’re making too much of this?’ he asked. ‘Murder, druids—maybe! —it doesn’t spell rebellion to me.’

  Probus pounded the desk. ‘Britain lies in the balance,’ he said. ‘While Hadrian was there, everything was quiet. But now he’s moved on to deal with the troubles in the East—where the locals give the druids a run for their money—is the worst time for a rebellion. We don’t want to lose Britain!’

  Flaminius grimaced. ‘What do we want to keep the place for anyway?’ he asked. ‘It rains all the time, and the natives are distinctly unfriendly.’ Not all, he told himself. He wondered how Drustica was bearing up these days. ‘Let the druids have it if they like it that much!’

  Probus shook his head. ‘We’ve already given up Mesopotamia,’ he said. ‘If we were to abandon Britain, it would be seen as a sign of weakness. Our enemies would sweep in. We’re no longer on the attack, conquering here there and everywhere. We’re on the defensive now, building fortifications to keep the barbarians out. If we relent and let Britain go, Gaul would be next. This prophecy of a Gaulish empire, I’m sure that’s at the back of it all. And after Gaul, Hispania. Germania… Italy!’

  Flaminius hadn’t been entirely serious. ‘But what are we going to do about this murder?’ he asked.

  ‘What you are going to do,’ Probus told him, ‘is attach yourself to the retinue of the new procurator and escort him to the province. There you will investigate the murder and find out how the druids fit in, and precisely what they are plotting. There’s already an agent in place, who’ll make contact if necessary. The password is Phlegethon. But to begin with, certainly, you’ll be on your own. I know you can solve this mystery, if anyone can.’ He returned his attention to the documents on his desk.

  ‘Send your reports by imperial courier, using our new variant on the Caesar cipher,’ he added. ‘Farewell.’

  —4—

  Lugdunum, Gaul, 11 April

  Three weeks later, Flaminius and Junius Italicus rode into the Gaulish town of Lugdunum. The journey had been uneventful, but Flaminius was filled with foreboding. He had happy memories of Britain from his days as a young tribune, but it was also the scene of slaughter, massacre, and treachery. Due to his Commissary work he’d escaped the decimation of his legion, but what he had heard filled him with horror. As for the druids, he had tangled with them in the past, too, if only peripherally; he was not looking forward to meeting them again. But as he entered the town, something else was troubling him.

  The two agents dismounted and led their horses into the waystation courtyard. ‘When we bring our message to this senator…’ Junius Italicus began.

  ‘Not a senator,’ said Flaminius, rubbing at the aches and pains engendered by the ride. ‘A procurator is always of equestrian rank. And Lucius Julius Corvus is an equestrian.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Junius Italicus said respectfully. He went on. ‘When we bring our message to this equestrian, what then? Do we go straight to Britain by the quickest route?’

  Flaminius shook his head. ‘I need to learn more about the post of procurator. Corvus and his entourage will go to the town of Londinium, where the procurator has his palace. We’ll accompany them on the journey and try to find out more. Why should auxiliaries, even ones suborned by the druids, assassinate the chief financial officer of the province? He has no military status, other than commanding a unit of guards. He has no religious significance, nothing that I can imagine druids would find interesting—only money, and surely holy men such as they,’ he grimaced sardonically, ‘would have no interest in filthy lucre.’

  Waystation attendants hurried from the stables. Flaminius showed them his lance-head brooch and they led the horses away while another attendant ushered the duo towards the waystation building. Over a glass of rough wine, Flaminius and Junius Italicus discussed their next move.

  ‘Lucius Julius Corvus’ villa is on the edge of town,’ Flaminius said, ‘on the banks of the river. After we’ve rested we’ll go there and bring him his message.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll be happy to be posted to Britain?’ Junius Italicus asked. ‘Particularly in light of recent events?’

  Flaminius shrugged. ‘It’s none of our business,’ he said. ‘Even if he refuses to take up the post, that’s for the imperial bureaucrats to sort out, not us. We’re just the messenger boys.’

  When they rode out to the new procurator’s opulent villa, they learnt from his supercilious major-domo that he was out hunting in the forest. Cooling their heels in the atrium the imperial agents awaited his return.

  Two hours later, they heard the clatter of hoofs from the peristyle garden. Shortly afterwards, into the atrium strode a tall man with a beard that would put the emperor’s to shame, and a no
se so long that it made Flaminius’ classically Roman proboscis seem modest. A short fat man and a tall Gaulish woman in traditional dress accompanied him.

  ‘Visitors!’ the tall man said. ‘And from the emperor himself, by the look of you. How is His Imperial Majesty?’

  ‘Oh, really Corvus,’ said the tall Gaulish woman impatiently. ‘Finish your business and let us retire to the dining chamber!’

  ‘No, wait,’ said Corvus. His eyes narrowed. ‘This could be the message I was waiting for.’

  After giving the curt salute he felt was most suited to a civilian, Flaminius handed Lucius Julius Corvus the message he had been nursing all through the long journey. As he did, he heard a raucous cawing sound and turned to see a large black raven, apparently tame, sitting on a perch beside a statue of Mercury.

  Corvus snapped the seal, flipped the tablet open and hastily scanned the wax within. His eyebrows lifted. ‘My powers of prophecy have not departed me,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I knew that something would come up.’ He saw Flaminius staring at the raven. ‘Ignore my little pet!’ he said, then added to the bird, ‘You’ll have your meat in a moment, my poppet. The juiciest morsels from the boar we caught. We have something to celebrate, you and I, Lugus.’ He stroked the raven’s feathers and it preened itself.

  Flaminius noticed a small, curiously regular scar between the man’s brows. He’d seen the same scar on other men. Come to think of it, there was one on Junius Italicus’ forehead. He’d have to ask the centurion about it. It could be significant.

  The fat man had sat down on a nearby couch and was fondling the ears of a hunting hound. ‘Come on, Corvus, what’s the message? Another posting for you? Let’s hope it’s somewhere better than that Syrian outpost you were sent to last time.’

  ‘Oh, much better,’ said Lucius Julius Corvus. He grew solemn. ‘But here also is tragic news. The procurator of the province of Britain, one Appius Accius Pulcher, has been murdered! By mutinous auxiliary troopers in the north of the province!’