But nobody among the courtiers took the objections of provincials very seriously.
Hadrian leaned forward, and everybody fell silent. He spoke in convoluted Greek, and Karus translated in whispers for Brigonius. ‘He likes the idea. It is a bold statement. But he is a practical man who counts his sesterces. He built a barrier of turf and wood along the Rhine; would that not be adequate here? After all the threat from the northern British is not as severe as that from the Germans beyond the Rhine.’
It was the crucial objection, and Severa stood. Among the courtiers eyebrows were raised at a woman’s intervention, but they let her speak. ‘A wall of wood and grass will do for a German–but it would never have done for a Greek.’ And she spoke of spectacular long walls the Greeks had built centuries ago, connecting places Brigonius had never heard of: from Athens to the Piraeus, and across narrow isthmuses such as at Corinth. ‘The Wall will be in the best Greek tradition,’ Severa said, ‘but in its mile after mile of shining impenetrable stone it will be a truly Roman statement.’ Xander who had whispered all this to her, looked pleased.
Hadrian looked impressed.
Karus’s eyes were moist. He whispered to Brigonius, ‘That mind, that fire–that heaving chest! Isn’t she marvellous?’
The Emperor was tiring of business. The courtiers sat back, and to a burst of music a troupe of dancers, jugglers and acrobats exploded into the room.
Nepos approached Xander and clapped him on the back, a bold soldier’s gesture that made the little architect flinch. He said in Latin, ‘When I was governor of Thrace my province included such a wall, at Gallipoli. Six centuries old, the historians told me, and still standing today.’ He turned back to the Emperor. ‘You will indeed be building in a grand tradition, Little Greek!’
Hadrian smiled.
But that phrase of Nepos’s–‘little Greek’–shocked Severa. ‘What did he call him?’
Nepos had used a Latin word: ‘Graeculus’, Greekling, Little Greek. ‘It’s just a nickname from Hadrian’s childhood,’ Karus said. ‘He always had a passion for all things Greek, even then…’
Severa turned to her daughter, who looked as startled as her mother. ‘Rome’s great son has come to earth…A little Greek his name will be…A little Greek! That’s what the prophecy says, mother. Oh, my eyes! It’s coming true, it really is…’
The Emperor and his courtiers continued to chat with fascination over Xander’s model, all unaware of the metaphysical shock among those who had proposed it.
And when Brigonius looked up he met the cold eyes of Primigenius. The freedman did not seem happy at this turn of events, not one bit.
X
Once Hadrian had made his decision, things moved quickly.
Governor Nepos insisted that at least some ground be broken, a few stones laid, before Hadrian left the province. And besides, if the ambitious project was to have any chance of being completed within Nepos’s three-year governorship, then some progress surely had to be made this year. ‘I want to see those stones piling up faster than leaves in autumn,’ Nepos declared.
This decree sent Xander into a spin. Brigonius had the uneasy feeling that Xander’s toy architecture did not translate quite as coherently as he had given the impression into a real-world project to be built by fifteen thousand hulking legionaries. But an emperor’s will was not to be defied. And nor was Severa’s: cold as ice, her determination fuelled by the Prophecy, she allowed no room for doubt. Thus they were all committed.
Hadrian planned to advance to the northern legionary fortress of Eburacum to inspect his troops. Once again Severa and her party rode ahead of Hadrian’s caravan. Severa would use every hour she could steal to get the project up and running before the Emperor even arrived.
But for Severa’s party the journey north was tense and sour. Once they were out of the pacified south, Roman military control was overt. There were no towns here save military outposts. The land was studded with watchtowers and beacons, and churned up by the remains of marching camps. Brigonius had grown up here; it had been his family’s home for three generations. As a boy he had even played at the foot of a stern Roman watchtower, erected in Banna before he had been born. But for his companions it was a strange, uneasy landscape, and they barely looked out of the carriages. Xander and Karus kept themselves busy poring over plans of their Wall. Lepidina huddled over her poetry, and even Severa was subdued. In their minds this was the edge of the world, beyond which lay only a chaos that threatened to blow out the orderly lights of civilisation.
Once Brigonius tried to engage Severa and Lepidina in conversation about this. He talked of stories still told around Brigantian fires, of dynasties of bronze and stone, an oral history that went back thousands of years.
Lepidina said, ‘I have an aunt who told me that Agrippina, my great-grandmother, told such stories to her daughters—’
Severa cut her off. ‘It’s all barbarian nonsense. Everybody knows that Britain was colonised by refugees from Troy. That’s why Caesar came up against Trojan chariots here. And that is what we are: Trojans, good Mediterranean stock, a few generations removed. I won’t discuss it any further.’
The party at last neared Eburacum. The legionary fortress stood on a hilltop on the north bank of a river, its walls square and uncompromising, and a shanty town of traders, soldiers’ families and other hangers-on sprawled outside the fort wall and south of the river. Eburacum was one of six military power centres in the province, including the other two legionary fortresses and the three coloniae, including Camulodunum. As if to reinforce the permanence of the imperial stranglehold on Brigantia, in the last decade the fortifications of Eburacum had been rebuilt in heavy stone.
They reached a gate in the fortress wall. Here a unit of soldiers under the command of a decurion stopped them and had them dismount so their luggage could be searched.
As they waited at the gate Brigonius at last managed to shepherd Lepidina away from the others. After his hour together with her at Camulodunum, and that lightning-strike of passion, he had barely been able to spend any time alone with the girl.
‘You’ve been quiet for days,’ he said.
She pulled a face. ‘Are you surprised? This is an awful country, Brigonius.’
‘It’s just different from what you’re used to, that’s all. And your ancestors came from Brigantia, remember.’ He took her hand; it was warm and soft. ‘Lepidina–that hour in Camulodunum, what happened—’
She blurted, ‘You’re thinking about the future, aren’t you? Our future, a future for us together.’
He hesitated, reluctant to ask the next question. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so,’ she said.
He breathed out.
‘But standing before all this legionary stone–it seems so unreal, Brigonius. We are so different, our worlds are as far apart as sun and moon. Could you live in a town, even a mudhole like Camulodunum? Or could I live in one of those funny round wooden houses? I want to be with you. I think I want it. But how could it possibly be?’
‘Then what must we do?’
‘Let’s give it time, Brigonius. A mere wall takes three years to build. A love takes a lifetime.’
He smiled. ‘You do have depths, Lepidina.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘You patronising toad.’
‘I wonder if your mother’s Prophecy would be any help.’
Lepidina laughed sadly. ‘Prophecies deal with trivia like the fall of empires. They say nothing about the important things, like love and the human heart! Look, Brigonius, we don’t have to think about this now. If mother succeeds in building her wall, if you sell a thousand cartloads of stone to the Roman army, then we’ll all be rich–ridiculously rich. And one thing I do know about the Roman way is that money changes everything. We’ll be able to live as we choose, anywhere we choose. But for now—’
‘Yes?’
She kissed him lightly on the lips.
When they got back to the carriage Seve
ra turned on them. ‘So you’re lovers.’
Lepidina snapped, ‘Mother—’
Brigonius raised his hands. ‘Claudia Severa, if you’re referring to the day of the banquet at Camulodunum—’
‘When you screwed her? Not that. What does screwing matter? Animals screw. Humans become lovers. I can see it. You are comfortable in each other’s presence. The way you talk, the way you walk. You are fusing. It is obvious.’
Brigonius said carefully, ‘Severa, I don’t think we know our own hearts. Not yet.’
‘Oh, don’t you?’ Severa leaned forward, and in the gloom under the canopy her face was a mask of bloodless determination. ‘Listen to me. Your silly hearts do not matter. What matters is the project. Because the project is our future–the future of our families for generations to come. Remember, both of you, that you are here to serve my purposes. Just keep your mouth shut, Brigonius, do as you’re told, and if you must fiddle with my daughter do it out of sight of the Romans.’ And with a sneer she turned away.
Brigonius was shocked. Severa had obviously used her daughter as a snare to lure him and his quarry to lend her scheme some plausibility. Now he had crossed some invisible line by getting too close to Lepidina, and she had struck back. There was no room for love in Severa’s cold calculations–not even pity.
Lepidina was quietly angry. But it was clear to Brigonius that she had faced such dressing-downs from her mother all her life. Brigonius began to wonder how much Severa was capable of, how far she could go in pursuing her ambitions.
Karus and Xander had of course heard every word of the exchange. Karus, trying to cover the tense silence, rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, as for me I could do with a shit, a bath, a drink, and some food, not necessarily in that order.’
Xander snorted. ‘For a lawyer you’re very crude sometimes.’
‘That’s the Brittunculus in me,’ Karus said cheerfully.
Severa extracted a letter from her purse and unfolded it; the bindings of the wooden pages creaked softly. ‘I have an invitation from one Ceriala Petilia, the cousin of a friend’s friend, who just happens to be the wife of a tribune. She has offered to host us while we are here. A good Roman woman. No more barbarians!’
‘Then all we have to do is find her,’ Karus said mildly.
Severa glanced about and saw a soldier crossing towards the gate. He was a centurion, as Brigonius could tell from the vine stick he carried. ‘You! Come here. I have an assignment for you.’ And to Brigonius’s astonishment she ordered a centurion of the sixth legion to carry her bags as if he was a common slave. Meekly he obeyed.
‘Marvellous,’ said Karus, but he sounded uneasy.
XI
‘Let me get this straight,’ said prefect Tullio. ‘You want to build a wall.’ A brisk, bustling man of about forty with a shock of bright red hair, he was clearly used to command, and he easily dominated his cluttered office in Eburacum’s headquarters building.
Xander, his model set out on the floor of Tullio’s office, sat more nervously, Brigonius thought, than in the presence of the Emperor himself. ‘Yes, a wall,’ he insisted.
‘Seventy miles long.’
‘Seventy-one actually.’
‘With three legions.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you want to do this in three years.’
‘Yes.’
Tullio’s eyes bulged. ‘Are you twisting my cock?’ He leaned back and called through the door. ‘Hey, Annius! Get in here and listen to this. You’ll love it.’
Another soldier, evidently one of the prefect’s aides, walked casually into the office, polishing a strip of breast-plate armour with a bit of leather. He was a muscular man whose head was shaped oddly like a bucket, Brigonius thought, with a narrow chin, protruding teeth, a broad forehead and a mass of black hair. ‘What’s up, Tullio?’
Tullio turned back to Xander. ‘Go on, friend. Do your routine again. How many miles? How many forts and turrets?…’ As Xander stammered out his plan once more, Tullio and his pal leaned back in fits of laughter.
To compound Xander’s mortification two small boys came running into the room, squealing. They both had red hair as bright as Tullio’s. They had been playing with short wooden swords, but when they saw Xander’s toy wall with its tiny fortresses and plaster hills they fell on it with delight. Xander, in a fussy panic, tried to keep the boys away, but he only excited them further and made things worse.
Amid this chaos Brigonius glanced around at his companions. Karus looked as if he was having trouble not laughing himself. Severa, however, seemed ready to burst into flame.
Severa had been relatively happy here at Eburacum. Compared to the cities of the south, let alone Rome, it was a coarse, military-tinged place. But the officers of the sixth legion and their wives formed a seamless social circle with ties of patronage, obligation and letter-writing that stretched all the way back to Rome itself–a circle that excluded any British, of course. It was a circle Severa had immediately joined thanks to her friend Ceriala, and so she had restored contact with her own world. But now here she was enduring the goading of this buffoonish barbarian soldier, and her fury was obvious.
The trouble was, if the Wall was ever to get built they had to convince Tullio.
Tullio was prefect of the auxiliary troops stationed at the fort at Vindolanda, just south of the line of the proposed Wall. He was a Batavian, who had begun his career as commander of a unit of troops from that Germanic nation. Tullio had very visibly done well out of his career in the army. Through his service he had become a citizen, and a member of the equestrian class–Rome’s highest below that of senator. He had a handsome apartment here in Eburacum. He had even taken a wife, a dark-haired British woman. He was a walking exemplar of the fact that the army was not just a tool for subjugation and control, it was a machine for processing barbarians into serving soldiers, useful veterans and loyal citizens. And as the officers, senatorial-class, were merely working through military postings en route to more glittering career destinations, Tullio was possibly the most experienced soldier at Vindolanda, or indeed in any of the northern postings.
Now Nepos, who as governor was commander-in-chief of the army in Britain, had given this solid man a peculiar commission.
The Wall would be built by the legions, which, descended from Rome’s first soldiers, phalanxes of farmer-soldiers from the plains of Latium, remained the core of the army. All three of Britain’s legions would send detachments. Legionaries were trained in construction work, and each legion had its own specialist teams of engineers, architects and master builders. There was probably no workforce in the world better suited to such a mighty task.
But once built the new Wall would be manned, not by legionaries, but by auxiliaries. Some auxiliaries were infantry like the legions, but many were specialists: cavalry, slingers, archers. These days many auxiliaries were provincials, co-opted into the army for their special prowess. Auxiliary units were more suited to the rapid-response policing operations of a frontier fortress than the legions, who were trained for set-piece battles in open countryside.
The governor, a practical man, saw the need for a ‘foreman’ accountable to Nepos himself to oversee the project. As an auxiliary commander Tullio would not command any of the legionary detachments who would build the Wall. But as it was his troops who would use the Wall, Tullio had a vested interest in making it work. And so, wise councils had agreed, Tullio was just the man for the job.
The trouble was, here was this competent, trusted man laughing Xander’s precious scheme out of court.
Karus stood grandly. ‘Gentlemen, this is an imperial commission. We all have an interest in fulfilling that commission. And you are scarcely being respectful to the lady. Let’s have a little gravity, shall we?’
The ploy seemed to work, and Tullio calmed down. ‘All right. And you, Butimas, if you swallow that fort you’ll be for it!’ Tullio aimed a kick at his sons, who fled, laughing at their own jokes. Tullio turned back t
o Xander. ‘Sorry, friend. Try again. Sell me this Wall of yours.’
Trembling a little, Xander restored his increasingly battered model, and turned to a folio of sketches on parchment. ‘Here is the Wall itself. Fifteen feet high, ten wide. A foundation of slabs in clay, then two courses of dressed sandstone around a core of clay or cement. In front of the Wall–that is, on the north side, facing the barbarians–you will have a berm eighteen feet wide, and then a ditch, shaped like a V, you see? Twenty-seven feet wide, ten deep, with a drainage channel cut into the bottom.’
‘And this thing will cut right across the country, yes?’
‘Yes. Local streams will be culverted through the Wall. Over significant river crossings we will need bridges.’
‘Bridges, of course,’ Tullio said, still mocking.
The aide, Annius, said cheerfully, ‘And on top of this you want forts and turrets, I suppose.’
‘A fort every mile, with a gate, and two turrets set into the curtain wall between each pair of forts. I have the drawings here…The Wall will be plastered and painted white.’
‘Oh, very nice,’ said Annius.
‘Such an edifice laid across the neck of the country will be an imposing statement.’
Tullio growled, ‘My cock is an imposing statement, but that won’t stretch from sea to sea, and neither will this Wall. Look, friend, let me put you out of your misery.’ He took a notebook, a fat block of wood, and shook it out into a strip of leaves hinged at their edges. He dipped a pen in ink and briskly began to scribble numbers. ‘Seventy-one miles, you say? Ten feet by fifteen? If there are, um, so many feet to the mile…The point is, friend, I’ve worked with legionaries. I know how much stone or earth a man can shift in a day…’ He came to a result; he tapped the wood leaf with his pen. ‘To haul all that stone from the quarries to the Wall line will add up to about twenty million legionary work-days. We’ll have fifteen thousand legionaries at most, and each man can manage perhaps two hundred days per year–less this year, as it’s June already. And if you divide one number by the other–yes, here we are–you’ll find it is going to take you over six years to build this Wall. Not three!’
Emperor Page 17
