Justinus laughed. There was no slave in the whole of Britannia better treated than Rialbus. He was family.
‘So,’ Flavius led the way downstairs, ‘What news on the Wall, boy?’
‘I’m not sure you’re going to believe it,’ Justinus said.
Flavius did not believe it. Not at first. He had guarded the Wall most of his adult life and his father before him. Segovae, in the early days, yes – they were always a nuisance. The Picts, now and again, of course. You’d expect that; the bastards killed people for entertainment. That’s why they were called barbarians. But the tribes in Valentia, north of the Wall, the Votadini especially, had co-existed with Rome now for decades. No one had ever conquered them as such, but they knew which side their bread was buttered and service for Rome offered riches beyond their wildest dreams.
‘So, let me get this straight.’ Flavius poured more wine for them both, sitting at the gnarled oak table as they were, ‘You saw Picts, Attacotti and Saxons?’
Justinus nodded.
‘But not together.’
‘No, not as such. But they were all operating as one. If we’re being strictly accurate, we didn’t actually see any Attacotti – just what they did.’
Flavius nodded. He looked grimly at the man in front of him, the man he had once dandled on his knee, whose little neck he used to smell, who learned from him how to walk and then to use a sword. And now the baby he once knew was a survivor of something more terrible than Flavius had ever seen.
‘The Praeses will need to know,’ the old soldier said. Justinus nodded and stood up suddenly. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘And that’s where I’m going now. I just wanted to check with you first. You’ve served the Wall all your life. I wanted to know if this was possible.’
‘It isn’t possible,’ the Praeses said. Decius Ammianus had been the commanding officer of VI Victrix for five years. He was widely reputed throughout Britannia Secunda as a thoroughgoing soldier, dedicated, meticulous and careful, as befits a man who commands a legion and a province; a politician first, a warrior second.
Ammianus sat on his campaign chair in the Principia as the cohorts went through their motions outside, iron studs smashing the ground, shields clashing and interlocking to the shouts of the centurions. Behind him in the darkened office that was the headquarters of the VI, the massive granite face of the deified Constantine stood impassive on its plinth. In front of him stood three soldiers of the second conturbernia, third cohort of the legion, a semisallis and two pedes, all of them travel-stained and with several days’ growth of beard. And they had just told their commander the most extraordinary story he had ever heard.
‘Tell me again,’ the second officer in the room spoke for the first time. So far he had just watched the proceedings, listened to the tale of slaughter and butchery. He was Fullofaudes, Dux Britannorum, the man who spoke in these islands for the Emperor.
Paternus cleared his throat. ‘The Attacotti had hit Banna, sir,’ he said, ‘and the Picts Camboglanna. We saw more of these further south …’
‘How far south?’ the Duke wanted to know.
‘Half a day’s march from here, north of Isurium.’
‘Show me,’ the Duke murmured and Ammianus got up and crossed to the map on the far wall that showed all his bases in Britannia Secunda. He pointed for the Duke’s benefit. ‘Here’s Isurium,’ Ammianus said. ‘Where did you see these Picts, semisallis?’
Paternus aimed a finger at the approximate position. It looked about right but without Justinus, he felt a little out of his depth. What was keeping the man?
‘And then,’ Fullofaudes was stroking his chin, ‘Saxons, you say. Where did you see them?’
Again, Paternus did his best.
‘But you didn’t actually fight any of these people?’ the Duke raised an eyebrow.
‘No, we …’ Paternus began, but Leocadius cut him short.
‘Of course we did,’ he said.
The others looked at him. Vitalis opened his mouth to speak but then shut it again.
‘Really?’ Fullofaudes was a politician too and nearer to the inner sanctum of the Imperium than a mere commander of a legion and a province.
‘We were out hunting when they hit Banna,’ Leocadius said, looking the man straight in the eye, ‘but at Camboglanna we fought our way out. We were the only ones left.’
‘Leo …’ Paternus said softly, but his eyes were wild. What was the matter with the lad?
‘We fought the Saxons at the river,’ Leocadius was in full flow by now, stepping forward, his eyes alight and his arms sketching the story as it grew and flew from his mouth. ‘They carry these big swords, heavy, straight-edged. But they were no match for ours.’
The Duke read the boy’s face, noted the responses of the others. ‘And the Picts near Isurium?’
‘We …’
‘Not you.’ The Duke cut Leocadius short, holding up an imperious hand and turning his head very deliberately to look into each man’s face. ‘You. Semisallis.’
Paternus wanted the ground to swallow him whole or the great stone face of Constantine to roar a reprimand. The silence throbbed. ‘There were only eight of them,’ he said truthfully.
‘And?’
Paternus felt Leocadius’ eyes boring into him, felt the tension in the lad’s body, strung like a bow next to him. The semisallis faltered, then made his decision. ‘We disposed of them,’ he said.
Another silence. Another eternity. Then the Duke’s arrogant features softened in a grin. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘And that’s what I shall do.’
It was nearly an hour later that the circitor Justinus reported at the Principia of the VI. He had shaved, bathed and borrowed a coat of mail for the occasion. He knew by now that the four were the first to bring the news of what was happening in the north; no other survivors had reached Eboracum and that could only be grim news for Paternus; his family were not here either.
Justinus had expected to see his commanding officer but instead, sitting on the Praeses’ campaign chair, was Fullofaudes, the Dux Britannorum himself. Justinus had only seen the man once but he remembered the patrician bearing, the aquiline nose between the dark, suspicious eyes.
‘I understand that you and your men are heroes, circitor,’ Fullofaudes said. He was surrounded by adjutants, both military and civil, clerks in pallia carrying scrolls and shuffling papers. He was reminded of the old joke about how many adjutants it took to light a candle.
‘Hardly that, sir,’ Justinus said, ‘But I thought you ought to know.’
‘Know what?’ The Duke was being obtuse.
‘That there are at least three different tribes on the attack, sir. That’s unheard of.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Fullofaudes held out his goblet to a slave for a refill of wine. ‘The Attacotti, the Picti and the Saxones. An unholy trio, to be sure.’
‘Sir …’ Justinus began.
‘Out with it, man,’ the Duke sipped his wine, looking up at the circitor with an expressionless face.
The circitor stepped forward, letting the helmet slip from the crook of his arm. ‘Sir, I have served on the Wall for sixteen years, man and boy. And my father before me. And his father before him.’
‘Admirable,’ beamed Fullofaudes. ‘But I don’t really have time for a history lesson.’
‘It is unprecedented, sir,’ Justinus was not going to be put off so easily. ‘Three tribes – that we know of – worse: three peoples, acting together. That’s a conspiracy.’
Fullofaudes burst out laughing. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘the conspiracy theory of history. I hadn’t expected to hear that again – and certainly not from a circitor.’
Justinus stepped back, head high, face grim. The helmet was back in the crook of his arm again and he was staring into the blank, blind eyes of Constantine the Great.
‘Well,’ Fullofaudes took another draught of wine. ‘Given the circumstances, what would you do?’
Justinus was taken aback. ‘Me, sir? I have no idea.’
‘Quite,’ Fullofaudes smiled, putting the wine goblet down on the table and leaning back. ‘Which is why you are a circitor and I am Dux Britannorum. Let me tell you what I intend to do …’
‘What?’ Decius Ammianus was putting on his parade armour for the review that afternoon and the Duke had caught him a little off guard. ‘You’re going to do what?’
‘Sort this nonsense out,’ Fullofaudes said. ‘It’s as well I was here, really. Oh, no offence to you, Ammianus, you’re a thoroughgoing sort of chap, but this …’ he chose his words with care, ‘this situation needs a touch of genius. That’s where I come in.’
‘But sir, at least take the VI.’
‘Praeses,’ the Duke chuckled, ‘these people north of the Wall are barbarians. They may be able to take a milecastle, perhaps even a fort. But they won’t stand against an army in the field. And anyway, it won’t come to that. You know these riff-raff as well as I do, Ammianus. Hit-and-run; that’s their style. It’s all smoke and mirrors. I’ll need to move fast, so I’ll take an Ala… no, actually, an entire Ala is too much. Four turmae should do it; three at a pinch. I’ll find their strongholds and destroy them.’
‘But they’re working together,’ Ammianus persisted, sensing that his boss might just have gone mad.
‘Rubbish!’ Fullofaudes chuckled. ‘You’ve been talking to that circitor … what’s his name … Justinus?’
‘No, I …’
‘Trust me, Ammianus,’ the Duke clapped a patronising hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘No barbarians will stand against me. Now, haven’t you got a legion to put through its paces?’
CHAPTER III
The barbarians stood against Fullofaudes as dawn broke over the northern moors. For over a week now the Duke had been chasing shadows and his men had watched their quarry vanishing into the mists like ghosts. The three arcani that Fullofaudes had with him knew both sides of the Wall like the backs of their hands, but north or south, they found the same story and had galloped back to the Duke with an identical message. The raiders had been there but had moved on. Yes, they had taken what they wanted – horses, cattle, grain and wine. Anyone who opposed them was hacked down without ceremony and his body hung from the nearest tree.
And there were thousands of them, the arcani said. Numbers that Rome had not seen since the days of Caratacus and Boudicca, ancient enemies whose names Roman mothers still invoked to quieten their mewling children.
‘Thousands of them?’ Fullofaudes stretched in the saddle, bracing his legs against the warm flanks of his grey. Ahead, on the black treeless horizon, he counted perhaps forty horsemen, strung out along the ridge, looking at him.
‘Io, Arcanus,’ he summoned the scout Artabanus to him. ‘Where are we? What does the land do here?’
The man looked around him as the Roman cavalry stamped and shifted, awaiting the Duke’s command. ‘The Wall is twenty miles north, sir,’ Artabanus told him. ‘The fort of Coriospitum, if it’s still standing.’
Fullofaudes frowned and pursed his lips. He was tired of all this negativity. Yes, they had come across the odd village looted and burned; a handful of peasants butchered at the roadside. The rest was hot air, rumours from frightened civilians who jumped at their own shadows.
‘Over there?’ the Duke pointed to the east.
‘The scarps are steep there, sir. Not good for horses.’
‘And there?’ he pointed west.
‘There’s a river, tree lined. Not …’
‘… good for cavalry; yes, I get the drift. Decuriones.’
The Duke summoned his turmae commanders and the four of them prodded their horses forward. ‘What do you make of that?’ he asked. He tossed his head towards the horsemen on the skyline.
Marius was the senior man and he spoke first, unbuckling his helmet from his saddle-bow. ‘I can’t believe they intend to make a fight of it,’ he said. ‘They’ll run.’
The Duke nodded. ‘Gentlemen?’ He needed the reassurance of the others.
Gregorius was the youngest of them, the man with least experience. ‘They can’t stand against half an Ala,’ he said. ‘Look at them – old men and boys on moorland ponies.’
‘How did they take a fort?’ Cassius Impius wanted to know. The others looked at him. ‘Those four lads who came back; they said those bastards wiped out the commands at Banna and Camboglanna, not to mention the cavalry depot. Are we supposed to believe that old men and boys did that?’
Fullofaudes turned in his saddle to the fourth man, Varus. The Duke was not impressed with the fourth decurion. He expected his officers to know their business, accept orders without question and above all, give him the answers he wanted. For the past week, Varus had signally failed to do this last. ‘I’d feel happier,’ he said, ‘if I knew what was on the other side of that hill.’
All the officers checked the skyline again. Apart from the odd pony shifting position, there was no movement. ‘Arcanus?’ the Duke turned to his scout again.
‘There’s a gentle slope, sir, and if I remember it rightly, a ravine.’
‘A ravine?’ Fullofaudes was suddenly interested. ‘Which way does it run?’
‘East to west, sir.’
‘Steep?’
‘Deeper than a man. The locals call it, in your language, the mouth of hell.’
Fullofaudes chuckled. ‘The mouth of hell,’ he repeated. ‘I like the sound of that. Take post, gentlemen; on my command, we’ll ride the bastards down. Marius, you’ll lead from the right.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Sir,’ Artabanus the arcanus was pointing ahead. Breaking out from the raiders’ line, reluctantly it seemed, a solitary horseman was trotting down the slope and across the broad valley. He was wearing an old wolfskin cloak, much patched and mended and his pony was stout and short-legged. In his hand he carried a staff and tied to it a white piece of cloth.
‘They want to parley,’ Fullofaudes said, smiling. ‘As soon as they’ve surrendered, gentlemen,’ he said to his decuriones, ‘we’ll hang one man in five. The others can lead us to their villages. I think the boys will have earned a bit of fun by then.’
There was a ripple of laughter from the horsemen nearest to the Duke. Here was a man all right; one who understood the purpose of a campaign. What was the point of a sore arse and blistered feet if there was no wine, women and song at the end of it?
The little horseman had ridden within range of Fullofaudes’ horse archers but the Duke was a patient man; and there were rules of engagement.
‘Io, domini,’ the rider said in passable Latin.
All the officers except Varus laughed. ‘I like a man,’ the Duke said, ‘who knows his betters.’
‘Io, Dumno,’ Arbatanus waved to him.
‘You know this man?’ Fullofaudes asked.
‘Yes, sir. His name is Dumno. He’s from the north. North of the Wall.’
‘What is it you want, Dumno,’ the Duke asked, ‘from north of the Wall?’
‘I have a message, sir,’ the squat little man said, ‘for the commander of this Ala.’
‘That would be me,’ Fullofaudes said. ‘Get on with it.’
‘May I have the honour to know to whom I am speaking?’ Dumno said. His Latin was better than passable; it was excellent.
‘I am Fullofaudes,’ the Duke said, ‘Dux Britannorum. Who is your message from?’
Dumno half turned in his saddle, leaning heavily on one arm as he twisted his squat body. He pointed a trembling finger. ‘Him,’ he said, softly. All eyes followed the finger to the horizon. A knot of horsemen had arrived in the centre of the line, including one on a huge black stallion that snorted and pawed the ground. He was a big man, in Roman mail armour but the oddest thing about him was his helmet. It was a cavalry parade model, fitting closely over the head and surmounted by a laurel wreath. It had a plain silver face that flashed blank and expressionless in the brightness of the morning. Fullofaudes had not seen one of these in years. As a boy in Rome he remembered them
from the cavalry games when crowds of thousands sat in the Colisseum to watch mock battles, roaring to the wheeling and clash of the squadrons. To see one here, on a bleak hillside at the arse-end of the universe, came as something of a surprise.
And there was another surprise too. Beyond the thin line of horsemen a standard-bearer rode into view. He was carrying a scarlet flag edged with gold – the vexillum from Camboglanna.
Varus felt the hairs on the back of his neck crawling. The rider on the black horse was not moving. He sat perfectly upright, as if he were dead, staring blindly at them all. Varus looked closer. On second thoughts, he was staring at him, with a cold, unblinking stare which seemed to peel back the layers of his skin to the bone beneath.
‘And who is he?’ Fullofaudes refused to be fazed by theatricals. The man might fart thunderbolts and piss ambrosia but when all was said and done, he was a barbarian wearing a stolen helmet.
‘Valentinus,’ Dumno almost whispered.
‘Man of Valentia?’ Fullofaudes said. ‘I am none the wiser. What is his message?’
Dumno wanted the ground to swallow him up. He wriggled and squirmed in his saddle.
‘Out with it, man!’ the Duke bellowed.
‘He says …’ Dumno took a run at the words. ‘He says if you lay down your weapons now and leave your horses, he will spare your lives. He also says …’
‘There’s more?’ Fullofaudes thundered.
‘He also says that you now have no northern frontier worthy of the name. You will abandon Eboracum. And because he realizes that will take some time, he gives you until Saturmalia to do it.’
Only the wind made an answer, sighing through the flying tail of the dragon banner streaming over the heads of the Duke’s front line of horsemen.
‘Seven weeks,’ murmured Fullofaudes. ‘He is generous. Take my answer back, Arcanus – and be thankful I’m leaving you alive to deliver it.’
‘He’s got my family, sir,’ Dumno blurted out. ‘He’ll kill them if I don’t go back.’
‘Calm yourself, Dumno,’ Artabanus reached out to pat the man’s shoulder. ‘The Duke won’t let that happen.’
Britannia: Part I: The Wall Page 4
