Britannia: Part I: The Wall

by Richard Denham

  ‘Votadini?’ the semisallis repeated, looking around at the others. ‘That’s a northern tribe. North of the Wall.’

  ‘You’re a long way from home,’ Paternus said.

  ‘So are you, Roman,’ she answered, holding her head high and holding the boy tighter to her.

  The centurion unbuckled his helmet and took it off. ‘We’d take you with us,’ he said, ‘but they wouldn’t let you in at Eboracum. I’m sorry.’ He turned to where a cavalryman held his horse and mounted. ‘What is your name?’ he asked her.

  ‘Brenna,’ she said. ‘I am called Brenna.’

  ‘What of this Valentinus?’ Justinus asked. For nearly two hours now he had been interrogating the little arcanus, asking for names, places, numbers of the enemy and their tribes. For one of the hidden people who was supposed to know everything – who was paid to know everything – Dumno seemed to be blind, deaf and dumb.

  ‘Don’t get me started!’ the little man said. Having eaten the circitors out of house and home in their quarters, he was now pulling apart a chicken, tribunes, for the use of.

  ‘But that’s exactly what I want to do,’ the tribune said, holding the arcanus’ arm before he could load in another mouthful. ‘You say this man is leading the rebellion. We’ve heard the name from others too. Villagers our cavalry patrols have talked to. Man of Valentia … it could be anyone.’

  Dumno put the chicken wing down and wiped his fingers on his sleeves. He looked around, just in case the tribune’s quarters had ears. ‘He’s a bastard. One of the Scotti, they say.’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘Only once,’ Dumno nodded. ‘And that from a distance. Rides a black horse. Wears a helmet.’

  Justinus looked at the others. ‘The parade helmet. Yes, we’ve heard about that too.’

  ‘If he always wears a helmet,’ Leocadius said, leaning forward in his chair, ‘how do we know what he looks like … when we hang the bastard, that is.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll know him, master,’ Dumno said. ‘Have no fear of that.’

  ‘Our man who came back from the Duke’s command,’ Vitalis said, ‘the signifer. He said they were beaten at a place called the Mouth of Hell. Do you know where that is?’

  Dumno shook his head. ‘Never heard of it. You’re sure this signifer got it right?’

  ‘No,’ Justinus said, remembering the state of the man. ‘We’re not.’

  ‘Sirs,’ Dumno thought it best to leave some of the chicken carcase for the camp dogs, ‘I don’t know what more I can tell you. Tribune Justinus,’ the little man beamed, ‘Well, well … tribune, eh?’ and he clicked his tongue. ‘Tribune, I thank you for your kindness and your food. Much appreciated. But could I beg one more favour? As you know I’ve been through hell for the last few weeks. Would it be possible to stay the night? A safe bed? Perhaps a woman if you’ve got one.’

  Justinus stood up, straight-faced. ‘Leocadius can help you there, I’m sure. And not in this camp, arcanus. We’ll find you a billet in the colonia. And at dawn tomorrow, I will expect you to be on the road north.’

  ‘North, sir?’ Dumno chuckled. ‘Oh, no, you won’t catch me going north again in a hurry. I’ve a hankering for the warm south. Oh,’ he paused on his way out, Vitalis and Leocadius with him. ‘What about Paternus … and my news?’

  ‘He’ll be back by nightfall,’ Justinus said. ‘Or very soon after. And make sure it’s good news, arcanus.’

  Vitalis drew the short straw. While Leocadius went about his duties in the camp, Vitalis took the arcanus south of the river, through the twisting alleys of the colonia, well away from the straight thoroughfares that led through the canabae to the camp. It was dark already on that short winter’s day by the time Vitalis found Dumno a bed for the night. The wine, the food and the woman were all in the price. He did not know it, but the praeses was paying.

  Vitalis was glad to leave him there. If truth be told, the little man irritated him. He was interested in one thing – himself – and all his endless curiosity, about the lads’ recent promotions, for example, always ended up with an extended whinge about how unfair life was to him.

  But Vitalis had made a promise to the praeses, as they all had. He was to listen at doorways, chat to the carpenters and the gardeners, flatter the tinsmiths and hob-nob with the wharfmen. Leocadius was supposed to be doing the same, to check their mood, test their loyalty, quell dissent and scotch rumours. Vitalis had noticed however than friend Leo spent ever more time in the taverns along the quay and most of the people he talked to, when he wasn’t playing Hands, were tall, elegant beauties of the night, who would charge four times to a circitor what a humble pedes would have to pay.

  It was not one of these that Vitalis was looking for in the Red Sparrow that night. He just needed a drink. Ever since his promotion he had needed a drink just a little more than before. But he had never been a circitor until now – perhaps it went with the rank.

  ‘Well, well, we are honoured, aren’t we, boys?’ There was a crowd of the Second Cohort at the Sparrow that night, drinking and dicing with the locals. Vitalis looked up to see a dozen men looking straight at him. In accordance with regulations he had left his sword and dagger in the camp and if it came to it, he wasn’t sure how far his fists would get him.

  ‘It is circitor Vitalis Celatius, isn’t it?’ The pedes talking was built like a basilica, just as high and just as square.

  ‘What do you want, soldier?’ Vitalis asked him.

  ‘I’d like to buy you a drink, circitor,’ the pedes said. ‘It’s not everyday we get a real live hero of the Wall in here.’

  Vitalis looked up at the man looming over him. ‘You’re drunk,’ he said.

  The soldier grabbed a cup from his table and threw the contents into Vitalis’ face. ‘So are you, now,’ he laughed and the others laughed with him, banging the table so that the cups bounced. Vitalis stood up slowly. ‘I hope you’re not going to waste any more good wine like that,’ he said, and he turned for the door. Here he came face to face with another of the Second’s finest, who folded his arms and looked the circitor squarely in the face.

  ‘Stand aside, soldier,’ Vitalis said, his heart pounding and his lips, for all they were dripping with wine, oddly dry, ‘and I’ll forget about bringing charges.’

  ‘Charges?’ the man grunted. ‘Now what might they be?’ he asked. ‘If I’m going to receive punishment, I might as well make it worthwhile.’ He swung a lazy right arm but he was too slow for Vitalis who ducked and dodged aside. There were five men on their feet now and Vitalis raised both hands backing away from them. ‘Now, think about this,’ he said firmly. ‘Think very carefully.’

  ‘Is that what you said to the painted people,’ somebody asked, ‘when they came over the Wall?’

  ‘Yeah,’ another grunted. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t turn and run, there and then. That’s what I’d have done, Marcellus, wouldn’t you?’

  There were guffaws all round.

  ‘Marcellus what?’ Vitalis asked. His back was to the wall now and he had nowhere to go. ‘Just so I get it right in the cohort punishment book.’

  The soldier stood so close their noses almost touched. ‘Marcellus I’m going to tear your head off and shove it up your arse, you shit-faced coward.’

  ‘Tut, tut,’ a voice in the corner stopped him in his tracks. ‘I had no idea the Second were so foul-mouthed, had you, Vit? We wouldn’t tolerate that in the Third, I can tell you.’ Leocadius emerged from the shadows and Vitalis had never been so glad to see him in his life.

  ‘Well, look at that,’ Marcellus beamed. ‘Two heroes for the price of one.’

  ‘We come cheaper by the bunch,’ Leocadius said and held up his goblet, raising it higher until his arm was at full stretch. ‘Here’s to the Second Cohort of the VI Victrix,’ he said, ‘Cocksuckers all!’

  Marcellus was still watching the raised goblet and Leocadius’ right hand. He was not expecting the dagger in the left. The broad blade rammed through his tu
nic and stomach. He jack-knifed, grunting in pain not at all dulled by the wine in him. Leocadius gave the dagger a final twist and wrenched it free, pouring the contents of his goblet over the dying man as he went down. Nobody else was moving. Then a second soldier moved to Marcellus’ aid, though he was past all that. Leocadius thrust the dagger blade forward. ‘Uh-huh,’ he shook his head. ‘No more heroics. Vit, that man there, the one who first insulted you. Don’t you want to have a word with him?’

  Vitalis was still shaking from the murder he had just witnessed, but he was a circitor of the VI. More than that, he was a hero of the Wall. He crossed to the man, ‘Name?’ he said levelly.

  ‘Paetus,’ the man did his best to stand to attention.

  ‘You’re on a charge, Paetus,’ Vitalis said. ‘I shall expect you at the Principia tomorrow morning. Eight sharp.’

  Leocadius hauled his friend away. ‘For Jupiter’s sake, Vit,’ he hissed in the man’s ear, ‘You’ve a reputation to uphold. Kill the bastard. And I guarantee you’ll have no more incidents like this one.’

  Vitalis looked at the man. He knew he was right. But he also knew he was no Leocadius. The man lived by different rules from him; the dagger in his hand was proof of that. It was not in Vitalis’ nature to take a knife to any man’s bowels. And yet, he was a soldier. And yet … he spun back to Paetus. ‘On second thoughts,’ he snapped, ‘outside. There’s no room in here and you can’t afford the breakages on your pay; and I’m not picking up the tab for you.’

  Vitalis strode for the door, Leocadius close behind him, his dagger still drawn. Paetus followed and there was soon a large crowd in the narrow street, the dead man in the tavern all but forgotten. They faced each other, the circitor and the pedes, arms at their sides, legs apart. Leocadius spun the knife in his hand and handed the hilt to Vitalis. He shook his head. ‘It’s not worth another death,’ he said and put his fists in front of him. Paetus’ face broadened to a grin and there was more raucous laughter from the mob at his back. ‘Fair fight,’ the soldier said. ‘tell your friend with the fish-gutter to keep out of it.’

  Vitalis flashed Leocadius a look. ‘My word,’ he nodded.

  ‘Right, then,’ Paetus smiled. ‘Fair fight it is,’ and he swung his left leg so that his boot crunched into Vitalis’ ribs and the blow threw him sideways to hit the wall of the bakery to his left. There were cheers and whoops and the crowd made room for the fighters. This time Paetus used his fists, driving his right into Vitalis’ temple, then hitting his ribs again with the left. Leocadius winced. The soldier was half a head taller than his friend and twice as mean. Vitalis may have given his word that Leocadius would not intervene, but Leocadius had not. He kept his options open and his dagger in his hand.

  Paetus swung forward again, arms flailing, but Vitalis still had his speed and he ducked one fist before catching the other on his forearm. He grabbed Paetus by his tunic and pulled him forwards, rolling in the dirt and throwing him bodily over his head. The soldier landed badly and Vitalis drove his fist into the man’s face, feeling bone crunch. His knuckles were bloody and raw and Paetus was on his knees, spitting out teeth. Vitalis scrambled upright and lashed out with his left boot, crunching into the man’s cheekbone and he pitched forward, moaning.

  Vitalis stood, swaying. His hand was swelling already and blood was dripping off his finger ends. Every breath was torture and he knew that Paetus’ first kick had broken a rib. The soldier was finished, however. He lay face down in the Eboracum mud. There were no more jeers from the crowd now, no whistles or whoops, just silent, surly faces who looked at the circitors.

  Leocadius led Vitalis away, steadying him as they walked. As they reached the bakery, Leocadius turned back. ‘If anyone else wants to buy a hero of the Wall a drink or two,’ he grinned, ‘We’d be delighted to accept.’

  ‘They’re dead, Paternus.’

  There was no other way for Dumno to put it. It had been nearly midnight when the cavalry patrol had returned with yet more dismal news for the praeses; and Paternus, numb with cold and exhaustion, had made his way to the bath house to wash away the aches of the day and try to get his body to warm up. He had not expected to see the little arcanus waiting for him by the door of his quarters. At first a guard had been allocated to Dumno but the soldier was needed elsewhere and the arcanus waited alone.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Dumno said, reading the shock on the centurion’s face.

  ‘How do you know?’ Paternus asked, afraid to hear his own voice in the darkness of the bath house’s atrium.

  ‘I’ve asked around. There were hostages taken at Camboglanna. Six men, four women and three children, I was told. One of the women tried to escape with her child – a boy, it was; two or three years old, he wasn’t sure.’

  ‘Who wasn’t sure?’

  ‘One of the men I spoke to, a pedes called Titus. Said he knew you, knew your family.’

  Paternus nodded. He knew Titus. The pair of them had been in the same contubernia once, repairing the Wall under the stars of a summer’s night. But this was winter. And it would be winter for ever for Paternus.

  ‘It’s no consolation, I know,’ Dumno said. ‘I didn’t tell the Tribune, but I’ve lost my family too. Valentinus killed them.’

  Paternus looked at the little man. He was right. It was no consolation.

  ‘I thought you’d want to know,’ Dumno said.

  ‘Yes,’ Paternus muttered. ‘Yes. Thank you.’ And he stumbled away.

  The almanacs of the farmers of Eboracum had been passed down the centuries. When he was not training in camp with the pedes of the VI, passing with the sword, hurling the darts and the javelin, Flavius Coelius could be found turning the clay with his faithful slave. The month of Decembris had thirty one days and the Nones fell on the fifth day. The sun, when it was rarely glimpsed above the grey, northern clouds, was in the sign of Sagittarius, the archer. The day had nine hours and the night fifteen. And through every one of those fifteen, Paternus Priscus sat on his bed with his back to the stone wall. He saw them with him through every minute of those hours, the girl he had loved and chosen as his own; the boy who would, when the day came carry his own shield along the Wall. She had been fifteen when Paternus had married her and she had dedicated her childhood toys to the gods of the hearth and the home fire. Paternus could see her hair now on their wedding day, piled on top of her head in the old Roman way, pressed into shape by a hot spear-head and bound with flowers. Her veil was the colour of fire and her belt tied with a special knot that only her new husband could undo.

  He heard a noise that he realised came from his own throat. It was sob that tore his heart and shook his body. It was dead of night, the time they buried children. He saw his little Quintilian, as if in a dream, washed and laid out in a cold tomb, the cypress branch across his chest. And he knew, as the tears trickled down his cheeks and his lips trembled, that that was not how it was. There would have been no grave for the boy, no weeping mourners. Just screams and shouts and harsh hands pulling him from his mother, as both of them fought for life, just one more minute of life, to be together. Another sob tore out of his chest, turning to a roar, then a whisper. He let his chin drop onto his chest and he whispered his boy’s name in the darkness. ‘Quin. Oh, Quin.’

  The praeses was sitting in his usual chair in the Principia the next morning, and his tribunes stood before him. Decius Ammianus was ill, the cold of winter gnawing at his bones and about now, a sunny villa on the vine-clad slopes of Vesuvius seemed a paradise to him.

  ‘It’s agreed then, gentlemen,’ he said, shivering a little in his fever. ‘Saturnalia this year will be as low-key as we can make it. We’ll sacrifice one ox for the Emperor and another for Mars Ultor, but that’s it. There is to be no revelry, no parties. And … I can’t stress this enough … no release of slaves from their duties. My days of stoking the hypocaust for laughs are well behind me, I assure you. Now, more pressing matters. The deserters.’

  ‘Six of them, sir,’ Clodius Narbo spo
ke first. ‘Various cohorts. They were caught together sneaking out of the canabae, running south.’

  Six, you say?’ Ammianus was thinking. ‘Very well, since they came from various cohorts, we’ll have the whole legion paraded. No arms. Hollow square. Justinus.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’ll arrange it.’

  ‘Sir.’ Justinus stood to attention. As the new boy, he expected the most difficult task to fall to him. Even so, he hated it. He had seen men hanged before and he knew the bitter taste it left in the mouths of men watching. It was supposed to encourage the others, but somehow Justinus doubted that. Even so, he was not about to argue with the praeses or defend the men concerned. He was no lawyer and he knew the way of the legions. It had not been so very long since a legion which had displeased a commander could expect decimation – one man in ten, chosen by lot, was clubbed to death by the other nine. The legions were iron hard. And this winter, of all winters, there was a need to keep this one steady. Justinus saluted and marched off to arrange a killing.

  It had stopped snowing by execution day. And the whole legion stood on the parade ground, at attention, their weapons back in their quarters, just in case. As officer of the day, only Justinus carried his sword and dagger, his sagum flapping in the wind behind him, watching the rows of grim faces under the helmet rims. There was no eagle standard today, as though the great, all-conquering bird could not bear to look on the degenerates who had defiled it by deserting.

  The six stood bareheaded, their boots unlaced, their belts missing. They shivered in the clawing wind that drew tears from their eyes. One by one, on Justinus’ command, they climbed onto the low stools below the makeshift gallows. For half a day, the carpenters of the legion had been sawing and hammering, making the frame that would take the weight of six men. The hangman, his head encased in a hood, pulled the rough hemp around the neck of each man. One of them was crying, his shoulders heaving as he tried to keep his balance on the stool. Two days ago, he was creeping through the canabae in the mists of dawn with two of the others. They had stashed their armour but kept their weapons and they all had such plans. There were fields to the warm south where the vineyards grew and dates from Damascus and pretty girls. And wine. No end of wine. Three men from Eboracum could lose themselves forever in Britannia Secunda. And they would soon forget their life with the eagles.