The Hadrian Legacy

by Gavin Chappell

  Flaminius studied her oddly.

  ‘There was a murder on Hadrian’s Wall,’ he said. ‘The procurator, Pulcher.’

  ‘You’re investigating?’ Drustica said. ‘Maybe I can be of some help. Contact me if I can aid you in any way.’ She paused. ‘In return, would you do something for me?’

  Flaminius shrugged. ‘Anything. Name it!’

  ‘Talk to the governor,’ she said. ‘He will listen to you. Tell him he cannot split my tribal lands in two.’

  Flaminius’s face fell. ‘I’ll talk to him,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know if I’ll be able to do anything. It’s not his decision, it was decided by the emperor.’

  Drustica studied him for a while. ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘Back to Luguvalium. My people need me.’

  He followed her to the door then watched her walk down the lane between barracks blocks. At a corner, she met two tall, handsome looking men, neither of them Roman citizens—they wore the traditional clothes of Britons.

  ‘Must be some of her tribesfolk, sir,’ said Junius Italicus, who had followed him. ‘Anyone can tell she’s only become a citizen recently. A Roman woman would be more modest.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Flaminius muttered. ‘I’d better go and speak with the governor.’

  ‘You’ll do what she asked, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Flaminius, ‘but I doubt it’ll have any effect. I was going to speak with him anyway. We can’t stay here longer. We need to be on the trail while the scent is still fresh.’

  Junius Italicus grunted. Flaminius walked back towards the headquarters building.

  ‘Very well,’ said Platorius Nepos testily. He looked harassed. ‘More than enough to do here without troubling myself with dead procurators. Corvus is perfectly able; his predecessor is no longer within my remit. If you wish to go, go!’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Flaminius. He considered explaining to the governor precisely what the implications of a druidic plot might be for the province, or for his senatorial career, but that would be undiplomatic. Instead he saluted Platorius Nepos and marched out.

  Returning to his quarters he told Junius Italicus to get their horses ready.

  ‘We’re moving out, sir?’ Junius Italicus said.

  ‘We’re finally going to see this Wall everyone’s talking about.’ Flaminius produced a map and unrolled it. It was out of date, it didn’t show the wall, but it showed the places that mattered. ‘We’ll go to Coria first, then to Onnum.’

  ‘Onnum?’ Junius Italicus said.

  Flaminius stabbed at a place on the Wall north of Corstopitum—Coria, to old Britain hands. ‘This is where Pulcher met his end,’ he said. ‘We’ll question the people who were present. Metellus said they were still confined to barracks.’

  A quarter of an hour later and they were riding out of the north gate of Eboracum. A guard saluted them, and Flaminius returned the gesture. They rode through woodland that thinned while the land rose the further they went. Soon they were among the lonely hills.

  Although they met regular patrols, whenever it was just him and Junius Italicus, Flaminius found himself looking at the heights on either side, imagining the vast numbers of enemies they might conceal. The terrain was not as wild as Caledonia, but he had met trouble not much further north in the old days.

  All that must have reduced since Hadrian began the work on his wall. Caledonians come south to stir up trouble must find the going harder, unless they brought ladders. Perhaps that was why they had resorted to murder—surely it was they who were at the back of Pulcher’s death. The druids still reigned supreme in Caledonia, even if they had been extirpated elsewhere. And yet the murderers had been Gaulish troopers. That was the most disturbing part of the whole matter.

  They passed through the tribal capital of the Brigantes, a federation of smaller tribes that included Drustica’s own people, the Carvetti. It was a bustling little place, the junction of two Roman roads, but beyond it the heather clad hills were bleak and lonely, with barely a tree. Flaminius hoped that he would catch up with Drustica, but the further he went the more convinced he became that she and her barbarian companions were returning to Luguvalium by native trackways through the hills, and had avoided the Roman road.

  After a brief time at the auxiliary fort at Cataractonium—it was being refortified in stone, and Flaminius remembered it as wholly wood—they continued across the moors towards Coria.

  At last they crested a rise and before them, snaking across the heather in either direction, was the Wall, the famous Wall of the emperor Hadrian. Flaminius felt a pang. Last time he’d passed this way, it had been open moorland. Now the Wall cut straight across it, blocking it off from the lands to the north.

  The world had somehow grown narrower.

  ‘Is it to keep the barbarian out?’ Junius Italicus said thoughtfully. ‘Or to keep us in?’

  Flaminius studied him. What was the centurion driving at? ‘Come on,’ he said impatiently, and rode down towards the smokes of Coria.

  Coria was the chief town of the Lopocares, a local tribe of the Brigantes, just as Luguvalium, a day’s journey west of here, was the capital of Drustica’s people. It lay due south of the Wall at a crossing of the River Tinea, with Onnum its nearest fort on the Wall itself. But it was a Roman settlement, set out in ordered streets and blocks of buildings. Another fort stood nearby, and it was here that Flaminius reported.

  Overawed by his rank as a Commissary agent, the fort’s commander—a tribune of infantry from the Twentieth Legion—provided him with an escort who guided them to Onnum.

  The Wall wound along the ridge. Between them and it stretched a growing civilian town, the shops and stalls and forges, eateries and temples and bordellos that stretched the length of the Wall. The settlement vanished over the horizon in either direction, just like the military structure it followed.

  At last they passed through its smokes and stinks, bawds, and beggars and found themselves outside the gates of Onnum.

  —10—

  Onnum, Hadrian’s Wall, 6 June

  After an exchange of greetings with Aquila, the centurion in command, who affirmed to Flaminius that he had been on duty on the day when the procurator had been killed, they went up onto the Wall. It led to east and west of the fort. A gate stood at right angles to the Wall—the fort was built across the line of the great rampart, and the centurion led them up a stairway and out onto the parapet.

  ‘Here,’ said Aquila, a burly man with a broken nose and piggy eyes, ‘was where those Gaulish bastards killed Pulcher.’ He pointed at the flags. A black blood trail led over the side. Flaminius knelt down and touched it, then glanced up at the lowering grey clouds. It wasn’t raining right now, but this was Britain. It must have been raining some time recently. But the bloodstain remained.

  Aquila moved past. ‘This is where the auxiliary prefect stood.’ He halted just by the crenellations. ‘Pulcher came forward to shake his hand. The decurion beside him produced a sword and stabbed him. Then the prefect cut the decurion down. I arrested the prefect on suspicion of complicity, but he took his own life.’

  ‘How?’ Junius Italicus said from the doorway to the gatehouse.

  ‘Poison,’ said Aquila.

  ‘Didn’t you search him when you took him prisoner?’

  Aquila looked shamefaced. ‘It was all very confused. But yes, I should have done, I know. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t still be up here freezing my knackers off—oh, begging your pardon, sir,’ he said to Flaminius, who was still examining the bloodstain.

  Flaminius rose.

  ‘That’s perfectly alright, centurion.’ Did the man truly think he’d be offended by some crude language? ‘Take us to the prisoners.’

  A man in courier’s uniform rode in as they descended into the courtyard. He dismounted and approached Aquila, then gave a salute.

  ‘Sir, orders from your superior.’ He handed over a message tablet.

  Aquila looked apologetically at his guests. Flaminiu
s gave a lordly wave, and the centurion broke open the seal.

  ‘It’s himself,’ said Aquila, slightly awed. Flaminius supposed he meant the governor. ‘My men are to return to Londinium, and the troopers are to be freed and returned to normal duties pending further orders; a commanding officer has been assigned them and is on his way. They are under no suspicion of complicity in the assassination, and the Wall needs every man guarding it who can be spared. We can never know when the Caledonians will come south again.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Flaminius said. ‘Freed? But I’ve had no opportunity to question them yet! How can any conclusion be reached before the murder is properly investigated?’

  Aquila shrugged. ‘Orders is orders. These men have been confined to barracks for a month. You took your time in getting here! You shouldn’t be surprised if the situation has changed. My men have also been here too long.’

  Flaminius exchanged ugly looks with Junius Italicus. ‘Centurion Aquila, I’m an agent of the Commissary,’ he said. ‘I demand that those orders are countermanded.’

  Aquila shook his head. ‘Sorry sir, but they come from my superior and he outranks you. You’ll have to take it up with him.’

  He strode away.

  —11—

  Junius Italicus glanced enquiringly at Flaminius. Flaminius turned away, shaking with anger.

  How could he be expected to complete his missions if decisions were made above his head like this? His next report to Probus would not sound good. He had half a mind to ride straight back to Eboracum and give Governor high and mighty Aulus Platorius Nepos a piece of his mind for this meddling. But Aquila was right about one thing, he had already taken too long getting here as it was.

  ‘What’s to stop us continuing the investigation, sir?’ Junius Italicus said after a moment.

  Flaminius whirled round. ‘What?’ he said. Inarticulately he indicated the busy scene, legionaries and auxiliaries rushing about. ‘All… this! This interference!’

  Junius Italicus shrugged. ‘You can still question the troopers,’ he said. ‘This hasn’t stopped the investigation.’

  Flaminius stared at him. He beamed and clapped him on his brawny shoulder. Junius Italicus grinned back. ‘You’re right,’ Flaminius said. ‘Well, I’ve spoken to the centurion who was present. All that remains is to question the troopers.’

  He looked about him thoughtfully.

  ‘But I think we’d better return to Coria until this fuss blows over. When things are back to normal and the Gauls think the suspicion’s lifted, we’ll come back and start asking questions. Go and find the men who came here with us. We’ll set up quarters in their fort. It will be quite the home from home.’

  He’d spent time in Coria back when he’d been tribune commanding an auxiliary troop of Frisians, loyal men if a little rough around the edges. When Junius Italicus returned with the men who’d escorted them, he went to the harassed looking centurion and told him his intentions.

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Aquila asked. ‘Very well, sir. My men will follow directly, but I don’t suppose you’d want to accompany us.’

  ‘You’d only hold us up,’ Flaminius said, adding bitterly, ‘and there’ve been enough hold-ups as it is.’ He saluted the centurion, who returned it coldly, then strode towards the south gate where Junius Italicus and the legionaries waited.

  As he did so, Flaminius passed some troopers discussing the promotion of one of their number to the rank of decurion. They didn’t seem to think anyone was suitable.

  ‘We need a more experienced man,’ one Gaul was saying. ‘We should recruit among the locals since the other forts can’t spare anyone. The Carvettians are said to be good fighters…’

  Flaminius and Junius Italicus returned to Coria later that afternoon. Flaminius explained the situation to the tribune, who grudgingly assigned them temporary quarters in his fort. When they had settled in, Flaminius sent Junius Italicus to get an amphora of the vinegar that passed for wine in these parts, put his feet up on the unfamiliar desk and worked out his next move.

  The next morning he busied himself with reports. Other than the procurator’s murder, all had been quiet. Not so much as a border skirmish had occurred the length and breadth of the Wall, and you didn’t have to go much further east before everything was still under construction.

  Flaminius remembered the crucifixions he had seen during his journey. Whatever the emperor had done to quell the disturbances, it had impressed the Caledonians and their allies. Was that why they had turned their minds to assassination? Frustrated on the field, they had resorted to the poison in the drink, the dagger in the back—the way of the druid. But where did the Gauls fit in?

  That evening Junius Italicus strode into the office. He’d spent the day getting to know people in the camp, trying to pick up what information he could.

  ‘I’ve been contacted by several Brothers,’ he said, fingering his forehead scar absently. ‘The organisation may be able to help us.’

  ‘Brothers?’ Flaminius said. ‘Organisation?’

  ‘Followers of Mithras!’ said Junius Italicus impatiently. He laid his hand on the desk. ‘I’ve been invited to a meeting of the local cult tonight. Want to come?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Flaminius. Junius Italicus looked disappointed.

  ‘I’ll tell you if I learn anything important tomorrow,’ he said, and left shortly afterwards.

  What Junius Italicus had to say in the morning had Flaminius sitting bolt upright.

  ‘I was passed this message by a trustworthy man in Coria, a soldier,’ the centurion said, handing over a wax tablet. ‘The original messenger said his lady sent him.’

  ‘His lady?’ Flaminius asked, cracking open the seal, which he didn’t recognise.

  ‘A lady called Publia Aelia,’ said Junius Italicus. ‘The tribune asked him what it was all about, but he said it was a day’s ride home and he needed to get going straightaway. He didn’t wait for an answer, just asked that it should be sent to you, apparently…’

  Flaminius waved him to silence. He was reading the note.

  ‘Publia Aelia?’ he said. ‘This is from Drustica!’ He frowned. ‘She says she has important information for me, about the procurator’s murder. “I don’t want to write it down,” she says here. “We must speak. Meet me on the Via Agricola, the Vindolanda road.” He looked up. ‘That’s halfway between here and Luguvalium!’

  ‘Is it?’ said Junius Italicus. ‘I don’t know the vicinity.’

  ‘No,’ said Flaminius, ‘you’re a stranger here. I’ll go alone.’ He cursed. ‘I was hoping to start interrogating the troopers today. You’ll have to make a start. I want a full report when I return.’

  Junius Italicus saluted smartly. ‘Sir.’

  A quarter of an hour later Flaminius was riding away down the busy Via Agricola. This was the old road that led from Coria to Luguvalium, roughly following the line of the new Wall; it had been old when Flaminius first came to the province. The Wall itself curved away from the road, following the line of the hills.

  Drustica’s village was a short way from the fort that bore the same name. But Flaminius would not have to ride that far; it would take him two days even if there were any waystations at which he as a Commissary agent could find fresh horses. She had arranged to meet on the Vindolanda road, so she must have sent her message after returning home—or had her discovery been made along the way? He understood why she hadn’t commit the intelligence to writing, in case it got into the wrong hands, but it had come at a bad time. He despaired of ever getting a chance to question the troopers. Maybe Drustica’s information would make that unnecessary.

  A river flowed down from the ridge to join the larger river in the valley below. The road crossed it on a bridge.

  Traffic on the road had become increasingly sparse. Dark clouds were building on the horizon, above the forested hills, and a mist was rising in the river valley. What a country! It was June.

  Despite the modern roadway on which his horse
’s hoofs clattered so loudly, he felt as if he was riding out of the present day and into some land of myth; one of the strange, vague, poetic, and bizarre stories that the Britons told each other as they sat around their smoking peat fires of an evening, drinking heather ale…

  A horseman galloped down out from the trees on the far side of the river as Flaminius began to cross. He was clad in mail and had a Gaulish helmet, while in his hand, he bore an unsheathed sword. Flaminius sawed at his horse’s reins and the beast came snorting to a halt partway across the bridge. Its breath turned to smoke in the cold, dank air.

  The rider reached the middle of the bridge and halted. Most of his face was concealed behind the cheek pieces of his helmet. Only two hate filled eyes were visible.

  ‘Get out of my way.’ Flaminius was not in the mood for parleying. ‘I’m on imperial business.’

  The man glared venomously at him.

  Flaminius twisted round in his saddle as he heard the thud of hoofs from behind. Three more horsemen cantered down from the treeline, fanning out as they reached the road, and riding for the bridge.

  Flaminius stuck his heels in, urging the horse to gallop straight at the first man. Even as he did, he saw two more riding down. Too late, his horse had already brought him within sword’s reach of the first man. Belatedly Flaminius drew his own longsword, swung it up to meet the man’s attack.

  The ring of steel echoed back from the trees. Bunching the reins in his left fist, Flaminius chopped at the man’s side. He bore no shield, but as Flaminius hacked at him, he rolled in the saddle and the blow went wide. The man recovered superbly and his blade flashed in the dim sunlight as he nicked Flaminius’ sword arm.

  Cursing, Flaminius tried to ride around the man but the bridge was not wide enough. He had no time for bagaudae, deserters, conspirators or whatever they were. The two who had followed the first rode up, and Flaminius heard more than saw the arrival of the three behind him. Directly below the bridge foamed the waters of the river. The riders moved to surround him. Dropping his sword, Flaminius leapt from horseback.