‘You think it’s your place to decide what’s true and what’s a lie?’ Metellus demanded. ‘These legionaries from the garrison—what are they doing here?’
‘Sir, they were pursuing the prisoner.’
‘Get back to your fort!’ Metellus barked.
‘But the rebels…’
‘Don’t question a superior office!’ the tribune shouted. ‘I’d order you to be flogged, but you’ll be stiff and dead by morning. Get back to your fort and die there. What are you here for, except to die for Rome?’
Eyes wide, the legionaries departed the colonnade. Metellus turned to face Flaminius.
‘You’re here to see the procurator? You have a message for him?’
Flaminius gaped at him, still winded from the legionary’s blow.
‘Yes,’ he wheezed at last.
‘Come with me,’ Metellus said.
‘Sir!’ said Aquila anxiously. ‘I must protest. You’re not going to go alone with the prisoner to the procurator’s office!’
Metellus pursed his lips. ‘Indeed no. Two of you, come with me. And you—’ he addressed Aquila— ‘if you survive the battle, don’t forget to report for a flogging in the morning.’
As Metellus led them up the steps and through the palace doors, two guards fell into step on either side of Flaminius. Gratitude filled him; he had thought he was going to die there.
The man didn’t seem to recognise him in this getup. What had persuaded him that Flaminius was a messenger? Had he noticed his raven brand under his fading war paint? That must be it. Metellus was a Mithraist, like Corvus.
‘Thanks,’ he said as they strode along the immense corridors. This deep in the palace, the sound of the fighting was almost inaudible. Slaves in the garb of clerks passed by, showing no fear, only devotion to duty. As if the entire province outside was not gripped by war and rebellion.
‘Thanks? For what?’ Metellus said.
‘Getting me out of that jam,’ Flaminius said. Metellus looked at him oddly.
‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘If you have a message for the procurator, it must be of the utmost importance.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Flaminius, ‘under the circumstances. You seem very calm considering the barbarians are at the gate.’
Again, Metellus looked at him strangely. ‘You seem familiar,’ he commented. ‘Have we met before?’
‘Yes,’ said Flaminius. ‘Last time we met was at my initiation into the cult of Mithras.’
‘Of course,’ said Metellus. ‘You’re in disguise? That would explain it, I suppose.’
‘Yes, I’m in disguise,’ said Flaminius, unbuckling his helmet and placing it under his arm. He was not sure what the man was getting at. ‘It’s the only way to travel right now. You thought I was really a Gaul?’
‘Don’t trouble yourself over it,’ Metellus replied. They had reached a large and impressive set of doors. Two guards saluted Metellus as he approached.
‘Messenger for the procurator,’ said Metellus. They saluted again and opened one of the doors. Beckoning, Metellus led Flaminius into Corvus’s office.
—32—
The procurator sat at his desk in the middle of a vast, marble walled office, writing quietly on a leaf of papyrus while sipping from a wine glass. The walls were lined with the busts of his predecessors; other busts stood on freestanding columns, Julius Caesar, the Emperor Claudius, Hadrian himself. Drapes hung from the walls, the floor was a mosaic showing Aeneas escaping the burning Troy with his father on his shoulders. On the desk in front of Corvus, incongruous in the opulent surroundings, a pigeon perched.
A hush hung in the air, broke only by gentle coos from the pigeon and the plaintive notes of a lute played by a Hispanian slave who sat on a stool in the corner. Only the very distant sound of fighting and destruction troubled Flaminius’ ears, and Lucius Julius Corvus seemed oblivious.
He put down his pen, rolled up the papyrus and sealed it using an ornate seal ring, and looked up as Metellus approached, the wild, battered figure of Flaminius at his side. Corvus’ long nose glinted in the lamplight.
‘Ah, tribune,’ he said. ‘You wished to see me?’ He glanced curiously at Flaminius.
‘Yes, I do!’ Flaminius said, taking a step forward. ‘Don’t you know what’s going on outside? Londinium has been attacked! You should be arranging a retreat of citizens into the fort…!’
‘Too late for that, I think,’ said Metellus.
Corvus looked from one to the other, puzzled. ‘Who is this fellow, tribune?’ he said. Flaminius realised that he had been addressing Metellus. The procurator hadn’t recognised him due to his disguise.
‘He says he brings you a message, sir,’ said Metellus with a grin.
The procurator looked sternly at Flaminius. ‘A message?’ His gaze took in Flaminius’ auxiliary armour and barbarous ornaments, blue painted face and lime washed hair. ‘Well, what is it? Are our enemies defeated? Is the province secure?’
‘Hardly!’ said Flaminius. ‘It’s chaos out there.’
Corvus glanced meaningfully at Metellus, who struck Flaminius. Flaminius grunted with pain. He’d taken a lot of punishment recently. ‘What was that for?’
‘You’ll make your report in a seemlier fashion!’ Metellus’ raven brand blazing fiercely. ‘This is our leader!’
Flaminius drew himself up and saluted the procurator. Standing on ceremony while Londinium burned. These civilian administrators were all fools.
‘Permission to speak, sir,’ he bellowed.
Corvus flapped a hand. ‘Speak, man, speak.’
‘Sir, the town of Londinium has been attacked by bagaudae,’ Flaminius said. ‘They are mutinous auxiliaries who fight in concert with Caledonians, while druids lead them.’
‘Yes,’ said Corvus wearily. ‘We know all that. Do get on with it.’
Flaminius paused, frowning. ‘My advice is to gather together the civilians and lead them to safety. I would have said the fort, but the bagaudae are probably in control of it by now. I recommend you send scouts out to ascertain the situation.’
Corvus sat up and exchanged looks with Metellus. Metellus swung a blow at Flaminius, who dodged it, and looked in puzzlement from one to the other.
‘You make recommendations, do you?’ Corvus said. He peered at Flaminius thoughtfully. ‘Have we met?’
Flaminius wrenched off his helmet and tapped the raven brand on his forehead now it would be easier for Corvus to see. ‘Ignore the hair—it’s lime washed. Ignore the woad. And for Jove’s sake, ignore the moustache. Remember this brand? I got it at your instigation.’
‘That could have been anyone…’ Corvus began,
‘I’m Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus! The Commissary agent who came with you from Gaul.’
Corvus’ expression changed. He sat back in his chair. He pursed his lips. He steepled his fingers and put them to those lips.
Outside, the roar of the fighting grew louder.
Corvus pointed his fingers at Flaminius. ‘Yes, I remember you now. I heard a rumour that you were dead, or had deserted. And now you turn up in my office on the eve of war.’
Flaminius lost his temper. ‘It’s not the eve of war, it’s blackest midnight! Out there is a rebel force that will torch Hadrian’s Londinium just as Boudicca burned the old one. Roman citizens are being killed right now and you’re doing nothing!’
Corvus rubbed at his nose with one finger. ‘You seem to misunderstand my power,’ he said. ‘My remit is not military. I’m purely involved with finance.’
‘You have authority,’ Flaminius raged. ‘You can organise a retreat. Requisition boats to take the people out of here.’ He paced up and down. Metellus was staring at him in astonishment. ‘It’s too late for many. The legionaries from Londinium were slaughtered on the Verulamium road and the bagaudae got here shortly after I did…’
‘What were you doing?’ Corvus asked. ‘What brought you here, tribune?’
Flaminius turned. The man was taking old fashioned Roman
gravitas just a bit too far, but he felt ashamed of himself, shouting like a barbarian housewife. He calmed down.
‘For three months, I’ve been undercover. You’re right, I dropped out of sight. I didn’t know who to trust anymore. I infiltrated Dumnorix’s Troop. And I kept my eyes open.’
Metellus frowned. ‘You infiltrated Dumnorix’s Troop?’
Flaminius nodded. ‘All part of the service.’ He gave them a quick summary of what he had learnt in the city of the druids, though he felt mounting impatience as he did. What atrocities were being committed beyond the palace walls?
‘So,’ said Corvus. ‘After this mysterious attempt on your life you were worried that the governor or someone on his staff was a traitor, so you dropped out of sight from both sides. Went rogue, you might say.’ He gave a thin smile.
‘After I joined the bagaudae,’ Flaminius went on, ‘I realised that the governor couldn’t be at the back of all this. These Gauls and Caledonians and druids were plotting something. The druids prophesied a Gaulish empire, you know.’
‘Is that so?’ said Corvus.
‘They suborned the auxiliaries,’ Flaminius went on. He shrugged. ‘These won’t be the first auxiliaries to mutiny.’
Corvus nodded. ‘Julius Civilis, for example.’
Flaminius nodded impatiently. ‘There was no reason to suspect the governor…’
‘But you had evidence,’ said Metellus, frowning, ‘that someone was working on the inside. That message you received…’
‘If the plot had worked,’ Corvus pointed out, ‘you would be a dead man by now. The druidic mysteries would never have been infiltrated.’
Flaminius nodded. ‘But it’s futile, unless you do something about it. Once I’d realised the governor couldn’t be involved, I tried to get a message out. My Commissary centurion made the first attempt…’
‘You said he was a traitor.’
‘I thought so,’ said Flaminius, ‘but he said he received a message…’ He halted.
‘Go on,’ said Corvus.
‘He received a message from a man he trusted because he was a soldier.’ Flaminius rubbed at the scar on his forehead. He looked at Metellus’ forehead. He looked at Corvus’ forehead. ‘A soldier,’ he repeated absently. He looked at the pigeon on the desk. It cooed innocently.
‘They told him to give me the message,’ he added. ‘He didn’t know it was a trap.’ He rubbed at his brow furiously. ‘So, some Roman was involved in the plot. Which means…’
The clamour from outside grew suddenly. Flaminius ran to the door. The guards outside were looking worriedly down the passage. From the direction of the courtyard came the grisly sounds of slaughter.
‘They’ve got in,’ one of the guards said in a whisper. ‘What should we do, sir?’
Metellus had appeared at Flaminius’ side. ‘Go to the defence of your master,’ he said. ‘You’re achieving nothing here.’
‘But we can’t abandon the procurator…!’ the guard said.
‘I will guard him!’ Metellus said. ‘Myself and the Commissary officer with me. Go out there and die for your master!’
‘Sir,’ said the guard resignedly. He led his colleagues down the vast passageway.
Metellus gestured Flaminius back inside. He sat down on a couch near the procurator’s desk.
‘Well, I’ve listened to your account,’ said Corvus, playing idly with his pen. ‘Do you think it changes anything?’
Flaminius was uncomfortable on the couch. He’d not been used to such luxury recently. He sat up.
‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘The barbarians are at the gate—past it! I suggest you get up off your fat behind and get yourself and any survivors into the ships and out of this province. Send for reinforcements the moment you get to Gesoriacum!’ What was wrong with the fool?
Corvus raised an eyebrow. ‘Your status as imperial agent permits you some latitude,’ he said, ‘but it doesn’t give you the right to talk to me like that. Metellus!’
The tribune of the guard saluted. ‘Deal with this impudent fellow, Metellus,’ the procurator said.
‘Sir!’ said Metellus. He rounded on Flaminius.
Flaminius shot up. He looked wildly from the tribune to the procurator and back again. ‘Don’t you think there are more important things to deal with?’
Metellus menaced him. Flaminius put a hand to his hilt and faced him down. When he drew his sword, Corvus put down the pen.
‘Very well,’ he said calculatingly. ‘I have no intention of seeing Metellus perforated. Put your sword away, tribune, and let me explain a few things.’
‘Explain?’ Flaminius shouted. ‘The bagaudae are in this building! Get up, get moving. There’s no time for explanations!’
‘I rather think there is,’ said Corvus told him, rising to his feet as the sound of fighting grew nearer, flooding through the building. The slave stopped playing. At a look from Corvus, he carefully placed his harp in a case, came to the desk and picked up the papyrus and the pigeon, then vanished with them under a drape, no doubt down a service corridor. Flaminius turned on the procurator again. ‘Don’t you think it’s us who should be escaping?’ he said. ‘Never mind the slave.’
The main doors burst open. Two guards staggered in, fighting men Flaminius recognised as bagaudae. Even as the guards entered the room, they were both cut down. Pools of blood spread across the mosaic, obscuring Anchises’ face.
More bagaudae and woad painted Caledonians swaggered inside, forming a ragged line on either side of the doorway. The procurator watched in silence. Footsteps came from outside.
Cucullata entered, swaggering like a man, flanked by more bagaudae, their armour rusty with blood. She stood in the entrance surveying the room. Her eyes, half hidden by that cowl, fell upon Flaminius.
‘Gaesorix!’
He looked at his sword, then at the procurator, then at Cucullata again.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘They said that you had ridden away in terror during the battle. Now I find you here, sword drawn, threatening the procurator of the province.’
Flaminius seized the only chance that presented itself to him. ‘I didn’t ride away in terror,’ he said. ‘I saw the way the battle was going—that it would be a victory for you and the druids. I realised I had a chance to truly prove myself.’
Sitting there in silence, Corvus lifted an ironic eyebrow. Metellus gave Flaminius a disbelieving look.
‘Go on,’ Cucullata purred. ‘This is very interesting.’
Flaminius swallowed. ‘I fought my way here,’ he said, indicating his fresh bruises with his left hand. ‘Finally I reached the procurator’s office and took him prisoner.’
‘Is this true?’ Cucullata asked Corvus.
‘What can I say?’ the procurator asked. ‘Here we are; Gaesorix, as you call him, is standing over me with drawn sword.’ He laughed. ‘I simply must surrender.’
Cucullata stepped close to Flaminius. She had never been so close to him before. He could smell her scent. The coppery stench of freshly spilt blood overlaid something else. Telinine unguent. Rather classy for a Gaulish rebel leader, a druidess.
‘You are a fool, Gaesorix,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
A fussy little voice came from the corridor, and an armoured man waddled in followed by rebel auxiliaries. ‘We’ve finished slitting the guards’ throats. I enjoyed that. I don’t get much of a chance to really spill blood, not even in this job you landed me, Corvus.’
Marcius Magnus reached a halt, looking curiously at the scene in the room. Flaminius looked back in horror.
‘Do you know nothing?’ Cucullata added, paying no attention to the way Flaminius was looking at his erstwhile commanding officer. She gestured at Corvus. ‘Do you not know who you have taken prisoner? This is no enemy.’
Flaminius looked from her to Corvus. ‘I think he is,’ he said quietly. ‘I think I’ve worked out exactly who he is.’
‘I believe
we have a case of mistaken identities,’ Corvus said ‘The lady here seems to believe you are a Gaul or Briton named Gaesorix. This is Flaminius, dear. You remember him? He’s an imperial agent. Oh, please, take that cowl down.’
Cucullata drew back the cowl. She looked quizzically at Flaminius and he recognised her as Corvus’ lover, Epasias.
‘That rather gauche fellow who joined us on the journey?’ she asked. ‘So I see. His centurion penetrated the city of the druids. We took him prisoner but he escaped. Of course!’ she added. ‘Gaesorix was the one intended to sacrifice him.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Took some heads later on, as I remember.’
Corvus looked at Flaminius wonderingly. ‘This imperial agent, a head-hunter?’ He laughed uproariously. ‘Whatever will your emperor think! Perhaps we’ll keep you on once Britain is part of our own empire—the empire of the druids.’
‘Your security is useless,’ said Flaminius. ‘Several of our agents penetrated it. Sadly, Junius Italicus died while escaping, or word of your plans would have reached the authorities a long time ago.’
But he sounded cooler than he felt.
‘Kill him,’ Marcius Magnus said. ‘He’s a spy. Slit his throat. Here, I’ll do it.’
Flaminius heard running footsteps from the passage. Three Caledonians sprinted in. They halted before Epasias.
‘Romans!’ one barked. ‘They’re coming! We secured the town and got the foreigners penned up in that fort. I don’t know how the fire started, but… we heard horns blowing on the wind, and down from the hills came a vast force. They’re advancing through the streets even now. They outnumber us. What do we do?’
‘For Taranis’ sake, fight them!’ Corvus barked. ‘Take men, get out there and fight them!’
‘I don’t take orders from Romans,’ the Caledonian growled.
‘Do as he says!’ Epasias told him. ‘This is the Archdruid!’
—33—
As the Caledonians ran from the room, taking several bagaudae with them, Corvus turned to look at Epasias.
‘Keeping a low profile has its disadvantages,’ he told her with a wry smile.
The Hadrian Legacy Page 20
