Britannia: Part I: The Wall

by Richard Denham

‘What …’ Leocadius began but Justinus clapped a hand over the boy’s mouth and pointed upwards with his other hand. Leocadius could not see anything above him but the underbrush of leaves and roots, but he could hear well enough. It was the thud of horses’ hooves and shouts and whoops from riders racing each other to the riverbank. Vitalis had seen them briefly seconds before and hoped to Jupiter they had not seen him as well. From the angle he had, Vitalis could make out tall men with blond hair and heavy moustaches. They wore loose tunics of dark blue and at the waists of many of them hung heavy, vicious swords with a single edge. Their spears pierced the sky for a while until they reined up and dismounted, letting their horses drink before they did.

  Paternus did not recognize their language, but he knew the horses well enough. They were Roman cavalry horses, their withers branded with the mark of the Ala Invicti Britanniciaci. And they came from Vinovia. The Wall men waited in the shallow water, hardly daring to breathe. All of them had their spears in their hands, their shields trailing in the eddying water. Then Leocadius’ heart thumped even louder. He had left his cap on the far bank and there it was, in full view of the horsemen who were only feet away. Were they blind that they did not see it?

  Justinus had counted twenty horsemen, but that was before he ducked for cover and more may have cantered over the yellow hill in search of water. As the horses drank their fill, the riders pushed past them, laughing and joking, dipping their heads in the river and drinking deep, splashing and pushing each other.

  Please, Vitalis prayed to every god he could name, please don’t let them go swimming. Any horseman wallowing in the shallows would be bound to spot the Wall soldiers. And then the stream would run red.

  Vitalis did not know how long he crouched there. He had been nearly up to his waist in the cold water for longer than the others, trying to catch a fish and he had lost all feeling in his legs. Then, at last, the horsemen had mounted, wheeled their horses away and ridden to the west, not fording the river but following its meanderings for a while before disappearing over the yellow horizon.

  The four straightened in the water and grabbed trailing branches and tree-roots to pull themselves out. Leocadius sat on the still-warm grass and wrung out his saturated boots. Vitalis tried to pump some blood into his legs by rubbing his calves and flexing his knees.

  ‘What were they’ Leocadius asked his elders and betters. ‘More Picts?’

  ‘None like any I’ve seen,’ Paternus said. ‘Justinus?’

  The circitor was drying his sword blade on the grass. ‘I’d like a closer look at one of their weapons,’ he said.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Leocadius grunted.

  ‘Those swords,’ Justinus said. ‘They’re heavier than ours and with a longer reach. More like an axe. Unless I miss my guess, they’re Saxons, from Germania.’

  Vitalis whistled through his teeth. ‘They’re a long way west,’ he said. Justinus and Paternus looked at each other. The boy was right and it made the hair stand up on the back of the circitor’s neck.

  ‘Never mind the fish,’ he said. ‘We’ll find a village before nightfall. And we’ll help ourselves if we have to.’ And he waded back across the river, marching south.

  As the sun was setting, the far civilization Isurium was still four hour’s march away but hunger was burning in their bellies now and cramps were forcing Vitalis to slow down. Leocadius’ already painful feet had not been improved by the wet leather of his boots rubbing on his heels and he slowed down too, hoping he just looked like a good friend keeping another company. In a gentle valley, a cluster of huts stood on the edge of a stream, smoke drifting lazily up from a handful of fires. Scrawny dogs yawned and scratched themselves in the half light and a little girl was shepherding a gaggle of geese into a pen. It was her scream that brought the little village to life, and a dozen armed men tumbled out of their circular hovels, brandishing cudgels, pots and pans, anything to see off the marauders.

  Justinus held up his hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, instinctively falling into Latin. There was only a grumbled response and a ring of surly faces glowered at him in the twilight. He switched to Brigantian and spoke slowly because he was not sure of his words. ‘We’re from the Wall,’ he said, flinging his arm behind him to make sure they understood. ‘We’ve been attacked there. We bring you word. You’re in danger.’

  A large man with a thatch of dark hair and a heavy beard stepped forward, cradling a heavy club in his arms. ‘In danger of what?’ he asked.

  ‘Picts,’ Justinus said. ‘Attacotti. Saxons. You name it; they’re everywhere.’

  The headman half turned to the others and by now a crowd of women and children had gathered too. There was a silence. Then everybody except the Wall soldiers burst out laughing. ‘You’re mad,’ the headman said. ‘The Picts have never come this far south. And as for the others … who did you say?’ He was still chuckling, looking round at his people to share his fun.

  Justinus stepped towards him, his spear in his hand. ‘Attacotti,’ he said softly. ‘They eat people.’

  Another silence. More laughter, this time louder and more hysterical than before. ‘They give you blokes too much wine,’ the headman said. ‘Or maybe it was the sun today. It’s turned your head.’

  ‘Look, you …’ Leocadius had had enough. He was exhausted; his feet hurt; he was hungry and he did not appreciate being the butt of somebody else’s joke. Weapons came up to the level, but Justinus raised his empty hand and let his spear fall. He unbuckled his helmet strap and dropped that too. And he looked into the headman’s eyes. ‘You’ve got women and children here,’ he said, ‘and no defences.’ He looked around at the huts, twinkling with fires and heavy with the scent of woodsmoke. ‘We’ve come from the Wall, where there are ramparts and ditches and stone towers. Safety, you’d think. But you’d be wrong.’ He looked into the eyes of the little goose girl. A mother standing by her, with one hand protectively on her shoulder, hitched her baby closer so that it could latch on to her naked breast. Her eyes were wide with maternal worries and he concentrated on speaking to her, to the heart and hearth of the village, not its head. ‘You would be wrong,’ he repeated, softly, making the people lean in to hear his news. ‘Because behind those ramparts, those ditches, those towers, we’ve left behind butchered babies and girls raped for sport.’

  There were murmurs now as the menfolk jostled nearer their families.

  ‘What would you have us do?’ the headman asked. ‘Build a Roman fort?’

  ‘I don’t know what you can do,’ Justinus said, ‘And we can’t give you protection. We’re going south – to Isurium. You’re welcome to come with us.’

  The villagers muttered together for a while, then the headman spoke again. ‘I’ve lived here all my life,’ he said, ‘As did my father and his father before him. I’m not running away from any barbarians.’ He paused, ‘And anyway … who are the barbarians here?’

  Leocadius’ hand went to his sword hilt, but Justinus checked him.

  ‘You’re not being sensible …’ Vitalis tried to reason with the man; but Justinus knew it was a waste of time.

  ‘At least,’ he said, ‘Give us some food. We’ve been on the road now for two days. Berries give you the shits.’

  ‘Tough,’ the headman shrugged.

  ‘We’ll pay,’ Justinus said, dipping into his purse. ‘We have coin.’

  The headman took a single denarius and squinted at it in the dying light. He saw the jumble of a language he could not read and the laurel-wreathed head of a man he did not know. He bit it to make sure it was metal. Then he threw it to the ground and spat on it. Again, Leocadius jerked forward. This time with his sword half-drawn. Justinus spun round and slapped him hard across the face. Vitalis flinched. He could see the fire reflected in both men’s eyes and the muscle jumping with fury in Leocardius’ jaw. Then the younger man relaxed and he moved back, letting the sword slide back into the scabbard.

  ‘You’ll get no food here,’ the headman scowled at
Justinus. ‘Now, get out of my village.’

  For what seemed an eternity, the Wall men stood and looked at the villagers, then Justinus picked up his helmet and strapped it on his head. Then he picked up his spear and the four of them marched into the night.

  The villagers watched them until they were a single black speck against the purple of the sky. ‘Follow them,’ the headman said to the two men at his elbow. ‘Make sure they don’t double back. Haxo …’ another villager stepped forward, ‘Saddle that horse of yours. Get a message to Valentinus. He will need to know about these four.’

  They stayed away from the river that night, men too exhausted to march on, and bivouacked in a stand of elms with only the noisy rooks for company. While one kept watch, the others slept with their swords drawn beside them on the ground and their shields for pillows. Nobody was taking off his mail, just in case.

  The next day was like the last, with the sun climbing and slanting its rays on the light mist that crawled the ground. Justinus knew they were about three hours march from Isurium where, at last, they would find the world they knew and friendly faces and some explanation of what was happening. Once more, they skirted the road rather than followed it, filling their canteens and eating berries on the way. If Leocadius never saw another blackberry in his life, it would be too soon.

  They had been slogging along for nearly an hour and nobody was making small talk anymore. They had exhausted the possibilities – that the Wall had been destroyed, that the world had gone mad, that this was all some hallucination, some dream. Paternus had talked of his wife and son, of happy summer days at Camboglanna, until the tears had filled his eyes and he had had to stop. Leocadius was babbling about his plans once they reached Eboracum. There was a girl he knew there – Paulina of the lovely eyes. All right, she cost two days’ pay, but she was worth it. Vitalis was thinking of a girl too, but he did not share her with the others. She was his sister Conchessa and he had not seen her for years, since they were children. The little girl with the geese had reminded him of her, with her fair hair and her grey-green eyes, shining in the twilight of yesterday. Only Justinus kept his counsel. He said nothing to any of them, because the uneasy feeling of the last days was growing inside him. And because the others, even Paternus, would not understand.

  He stopped suddenly, holding his arm out to catch Vitalis’ arm. ‘Cavalry,’ he hissed and the four bolted, dashing to the cover of gorse bushes to their right. The ground ahead sloped downwards to a broad valley and the road shone white and straight across the yellow grass, cropped short by rabbits. The only shelter here were the bushes they were hiding in, keeping their heads down in the sharp spines that scratched and prickled, finding naked flesh no matter how they lay. Justinus peered up above the spikes and saw a knot of horsemen fanning out from the road. Their hair was long and plaited and heavy moustaches drooped to below their chins. The circitor counted eight. And they were Picts, the painted people.

  He waved his hand to the others and they all reached into their shield recesses for their lead-weighted darts. Two to one. Justinus did not like those odds; and the fact that these men were cavalry made it worse. They had the advantage of speed and height, their sturdy little ponies coming on at a walk but able to reach the gallop in seconds. At least these were not stolen Roman Ala horses; they were shorter in the leg, the wild horses of the north.

  From where they lay, the Wall men could hear snatches of conversation in an alien, guttural tongue. One of the Picts had a deer slung over his saddle bow, its antlered head hanging down almost to the ground. One by one they dismounted and while one began to hobble the horses, the others squatted on the grass, sitting in a circle and passing round a goatskin sack.

  Wine. That was what Leocadius could do with about now and he shook his head in disgust that the stuff was going to such waste. All the others saw was the deer. And they could all smell it, turning nicely over a spit, the fat and blood oozing down to make the best gravy in the world. Justinus assessed the situation. Clearly the Picts had no idea that the Wall men were there, but the country was open. If they broke cover, the soldiers would be exposed from all sides and to stand and fight against cavalry was suicide. They would have to wait.

  And they waited all that day, the sun burning on their backs, the gorse sticking into their skin. At least they had water and could survive on that, but Justinus knew that his men could not go on much longer without food. The berries they had eaten churned their stomachs and caused violent cramps. Vitalis was hit worst of all and he writhed in the gorse, pricking his face and gritting his teeth in an attempt to keep quiet. Nobody was going to risk conversation, but Justinus kept a running commentary in his head. He could not understand what the Picts were doing. If this was a hunting party, they had their kill already. There was no attempt to skin the deer and cook it. Instead, they broke the hard, black bread they carried with them and munched on that, along with some pale cheese. The wine flowed faster as more goatskins were hauled off saddles and the conversation became more raucous and more slurred. After a while a couple of Picts began to wrestle each other, rolling over in the dust and slapping each other, to hoots of laughter from the others.

  It must have been early evening when they finally left. They had lit no fire and the deer remained uncooked as they unhobbled their horses and trotted away to the south, back the way they had come. Once they had disappeared, the Wall men scrambled up out of their painful hiding place, scratched and hot and stiff and stumbled over to the Pictish camp. Vitalis found half a loaf of bread and no sooner was it in his hand than Leocadius slapped him round the head and snatched it from him.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Justinus growled. ‘Give it to me.’

  Leocadius hesitated, then threw the bread to the circitor. This was twice in one day the man had made him feel small. Justinus would have to watch his back in future. The circitor put the bread on the ground and cut it neatly in four with his dagger before passing it round. To all of them, bread had never tasted so good.

  ‘What now?’ Paternus asked. ‘Isurium?’

  Justinus shook his head. ‘That’s due south,’ he said, ‘the way the Picts went.’

  ‘What?’ Leocadius said. ‘You can’t think they’ve taken Isurium?’

  Justinus looked at the boy, at all of them. They were looking at him, expecting answers where there were no answers, sanity in a world gone mad.

  ‘I think they were guarding the road,’ the circitor said, ‘And they’re probably guarding both roads in and out of the place. We can’t outrun those bastards and in the open we can’t outfight them. I hope you enjoyed your bread, boys, because that’s probably all you’ll get until we reach Eboracum.’

  The Picts may have taken Isurium Brigantium but they had not taken Eboracum. In their heart of hearts the Wall men knew that that would be impossible for any barbarian. The great walls of the fortress still stood across the Ussos, its towers huge and imposing, each one with a wall of fourteen faces and the height of seven men, each one a rock in a sea of chaos. The ramparts bustled with armed guards, men with shields and helmets and all the trappings of Rome. Eboracum had been the home of the VI Victrix for two hundred years, long before the men of this legion had elected Constantine emperor. The army camp covered fifty acres, its walls holding a city in all but name. And the Wall men had never seen such a marvellous sight in their lives.

  When he had fed and rested, Justinus crossed the river into the colonia, the teeming town that had grown up in the camp’s shadow. It was still early morning and the shutters were being rolled up and the stalls set out as the market traders began their day’s work. The carpenters were already at their lathes and the potters up to their elbows in the grey clay they would fashion into ewers and amphorae. Geese, sheep, cattle and hens were being driven along the narrow streets and the noise was deafening. No one noticed a circitor of the VI wandering past the temple of Serapis where the priests were unbolting the doors to begin the first service of the day. Soldiers in this town were
ten-a-denarius for all it was the capital of Britannia Secunda; seen one soldier, seen them all.

  Justinus turned the sharp corner to his left. He waited in the shadows, checking that the way was clear. Rialbus the slave was helping himself to water from the rivulet that ran alongside the street and the circitor held his finger up to his lips. The slave had known the circitor since he was a boy and knew what this was all about. He smiled and carried on drawing his water. Justinus drew his sword, slowly and silently and crept towards the open doorway. He turned back and looked at the sky. What was it? Six o’clock? Seven? Perfect. The man he was looking for, with his naked blade glinting in the half light of the doorway, would still be in bed. This was going to be a picnic.

  The circitor reached the stairs that ran to the gallery overhead. He stepped lightly, careful not to make the timbers creak and climbed to the half landing. Ahead of him a chink of light streamed in to show a figure curled up on the bed. Justinus took one pace, two. Then he reached out with terrifying speed, hauled back the covers and held his sword at the throat of the man who lay there. Except that no one lay there. His blade tip was tickling a pile of blankets and another sword tip was pressed into his neck, just below the ear.

  ‘Tsk, tsk,’ he heard the familiar voice, ‘Will you never learn?’

  He half turned to see a solid-looking man in an army tunic. He was greyer than he remembered, older; but the eyes still sparkled and he could not fault the old man’s faculties.

  ‘Hello, Pa!’

  The older man threw his sword on the bed and threw his arms around Justinus. He was Flavius Coelius, the hastilarius, the weapons trainer of VI Victrix, an old warrior who had won his right to the parcel of land that came in lieu of a pension. The men held each other tight, stood back and slapped each other on the back.

  ‘Rialbus, you old shit-fly,’ the old man called, ‘Get some breakfast for my son. And if you’re very good, I’ll let you have a few crumbs.’