Britannia: Part I: The Wall

by Richard Denham

  Then, they broke up. They were soldiers, with duties to perform. On their way across the parade ground as another velvet night descended on Eboracum, studded with stars, Leocadius put his arm around Vitalis. ‘What are we going to do in Londinium, Vit?’ he laughed. ‘You’ll be amazed.’

  Liber II

  CHAPTER IX

  Rutupiae, Aestivus in the year of the Christ 368

  The bireme butted its way south from the mouth of the Abus, dark grey waters flecked with foam. For much of the time the oars were locked horizontally and the wind did the work, roaring through the canvas of the single sail. Theodosius had left his transports in the river shelter, in case things had not gone his way against the barbarians and he needed to get his legions away in a hurry. He left most of his ships there now for the same reason. He and Maximus had defeated one small army or a very large raiding party, depending on one’s take on life. That was not the end of it, by anybody’s reckoning.

  Leocadius thought he had died and was lying in fields of Elysium already. The ship’s hold was rank with the smell of slaves condemned to a slow death chained to their oars, but up on deck, the wind whipped the white caps and the flags strained on their ropes. He had never sailed before and he loved it, the roll of the ship and the slap of the sea. He loved it even more when, every night, he sat on the quarter deck at the stern with the Count and his staff, drinking Theodosius’ wine and eating his roast mutton that the chef had been preparing all day. He was impressed that, even on a warship moving south through troubled waters, men of Theodosius’ rank did things in such style. The talk was of Londinium, of streets paved with gold, of renaming the city Augusta. There were speeches and toasts, to the Emperor, to the Count, to the general Maximus and the total destruction of Rome’s enemies.

  Vitalis was there too and by the third night, he found himself drawing away from the others, resting his elbows on the rail as the stern torches threw their weird reflections on the waves they slid past. He had never sailed before either, but he could not share Leocadius’ obvious thrill. To him the sea was an alien place, forbidding, chilling, always on the move. He could still remember how he had felt back in the colonia at Eboracum when the centurion Flaminius had dunked him in the river. Imagine that a thousand times over, where there is no one to pull you out, no one to rescue you from the dark and the deep.

  ‘Tell me about the Wall,’ a voice in the half light made him turn. He had seen the man as soon as he had got on board, but not until now without his elaborate damascened helmet. The hair was flaxen and spread out over his shoulders and the Latin, though good, was clipped and strange.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Vitalis asked.

  There was a roar of laughter from Theodosius’ table nearby. That sounded like one of Leocadius’ filthier jokes.

  ‘Everything,’ the flaxen-haired man said. ‘I’ve never seen it. Or these barbarians who swarmed all over it. I’m Stephanus, by the way.’

  ‘You’re from Germania?’ Vitalis shook the man’s hand.

  ‘Vetera on the Rhenus. Ever been?’

  ‘Er … no. I’m just a circitor.’

  Stephanus took the boy’s shoulders and stood squarely in front of him. ‘No, you’re not,’ he said. ‘You’re a hero of the Wall. We’ve heard all about you boys from the Count. It’s an honour to be serving with you.’

  Vitalis could not tell from the man’s tunic and loose trousers what he did; Stephanus seemed to have read his mind. ‘I’m with the Ala Heruli,’ he said. ‘Under the Count’s son.’

  Neither man had noticed Theodosius slip away from the increasingly raucous table and join the pair. He clapped a hand on Stephanus’ shoulder. ‘Don’t let this man bore you to death, Vitalis,’ he said, sipping his wine. ‘That’s the trouble with the Alamanni – can't shut up. He hasn’t got on to his Pannonia campaigns, has he? No, he can't have. You haven’t quite glazed over yet. I have known him leave whole rooms fast asleep and snoring.’

  ‘That’s an appalling slur!’ Stephanus took an exaggerated step back.

  ‘Yes,’ Theodosius laughed. ‘It is. Actually, Vitalis, you’ll never find a more professional soldier. If I ever have to face the wrath of the gods with my life on the line, I would want this man at my back.’

  Stephanus laughed too. ‘Vitalis here was telling me about the Wall, Count,’ he said.

  ‘The Wall?’ Vitalis looked at the two great men smiling at him. He looked across at Leocadius, thumping the table with hilarity and off his face with drink. And he suddenly felt rather ashamed. ‘The Wall was nothing,’ he said.

  Rutupiae was the largest of the forts of the Saxon Shore, whose Count had been slaughtered somewhere in the west. Theodosius’ bireme, oars churning now through the sluggish waters off Tanatus passed under the great stone towers and horns from the walls sang out their welcome. The Count’s scarlet flag flew from the masthead and he was wearing his scarlet cloak today. All along the river bank, lines of mailed soldiers stood to attention as his guard of honour; the Batavi with their bright, hoop-painted shields and the Heruli with their red and white circles. ‘Io, Stephanus,’ Vitalis heard the cavalry roar and the German waved to them from the deck. His face was covered now with a spangenhelm as elaborate as the Count’s, except the Count was bareheaded that morning, smiling at the local women who thronged the quay. Leocadius was smiling at them too, but for altogether different reasons.

  On the quay itself, under an Eastern awning of purple silk, Theodosius the younger sat like an Emperor on his throne. Vitalis looked at the man, who he guessed was about his age. It was like looking at the Count through a mirror of distorted bronze. His eyes were darker. So was his hair and he had a curious way of holding his head, as though he had a permanent smell under his nose.

  The hortator was shouting orders to the oarsmen and the oars came up to the level before sliding inwards into the bireme’s hull with a thunder of timber, spraying rainbow drops of river water high into the air. Ropes were thrown and the anchor splashed down, the sailors leaping onto the quayside and hauling on the cables. The half-drooped sail was furled and the ship made secure but the Count was already springing over the side, landing safely on the stone much to the relief of everyone. Stumbling ashore had not been a wise move since the deified Julius had been driven back from these shores centuries before. It had been a sign that the gods did not approve. But today they did and the spring sun shone on Count Theodosius as surely as it shone from his arse.

  Father and son hugged each other. ‘Salve, Comes,’ the boy said in formal greeting, then, as they went off arm in arm, ‘Good journey, Pa?’

  Leocadius and Vitalis had never known such luxury. The mansio in the camp was huge and the quarters reserved for the heroes of the Wall expensive and well appointed. As they soaked away the stresses of the voyage in the steam of the caldarium, Vitalis gave vent to his thoughts.

  ‘How’s Pat going to cope, Leo?’ he asked.

  Leocadius shrugged. The hairs on his chest were growing again and he would have to have the slave work on those. ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘Mithras, maybe; Sol Invictus.’

  ‘I can't get it out of my mind,’ Vitalis said. ‘The last time I saw him at Rutilius’ fort. He was like a madman, hacking about him with both hands. No shield. No attempt to defend himself at all. You know he took that Pict’s head away with him? That’s no way for a Roman to behave.’

  Leocadius nodded and closed his eyes, resting his elbows on the warm marble. ‘Yes, I did notice that. Better that, though, surely, than threatening to fall on his sword every hour?’

  Vitalis looked at his friend through the steam and did not much like what he saw there. The Wall ring glittered on his finger and his wet hair was plastered to his forehead. Later, he would lie patiently while the masseur worked his muscles and scraped the curved strigil over his skin. Then he would grip the bronze bars fixed to the wall and curse every misfortune under the sun as an attendant ripped the hairs from his chest and legs. And, despite himself, Vitalis fou
nd himself smiling. For Leocadius, hero of the Wall, nothing was more important than vanity.

  The Theodosii, father and son, had finished their dinner that night and, with the family talk over, it was time for a council of war. Both men’s staff filed into the room, laden with maps and scrolls of parchment. Clerks scuttled this way and that, sharpening quills and setting up inkwells, ready to record the moment. The German Stephanus was there, as commander of the Heruli cavalry, his opposite number from the Batavi and the tribunes of both legions. There were also two circitors from the VIth Victrix, a forgotten unit somewhere in the frozen north – Leocadius and Vitalis.

  ‘What more do we know about Nectaridus?’ the Count asked once they were all assembled.

  ‘He set off for the west about a week before we arrived,’ his son told him. ‘God knows why he left the strength of Rutupiae. Apparently – and I’m quoting the few survivors who made it back – he was “responding to rumour”.’

  ‘What rumour?’ Theodosius the elder wanted to know.

  ‘That this fellow Valentinus had come south, skirting the Cornovii territory, if our reports are accurate. He appeared before Glevum …’

  ‘Glevum?’ Stephanus did not know the country as well as some of the others.

  ‘Old base of the XXth Valeria Victrix,’ the younger Theodosius told him. ‘He appeared there and went away. The garrison beat him back.’

  ‘This garrison, sir,’ Vitalis broke in. ‘Do you know its size?’

  All eyes turned to him. Introductions had been brief and to the point. This man and the curly-headed one wore the uniforms of circitors, yet here they were, hobnobbing with a Count and his heir.

  ‘Er … about three hundred, I believe,’ the younger Theodosius said, only now taking the opportunity to look Vitalis up and down. ‘Glevum is a sizeable colonia; stout walls, I understand.’

  There was a silence. ‘It’s not him,’ said Vitalis.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Theodosius was sitting upright, his face even narrower in the candlelight, a frown furrowing his forehead.

  Leocadius agreed. ‘It’s not Valentinus,’ he said. ‘If the garrison of Glevum is as small as that, he would have taken it. Has he taken it … sir?’

  The younger Theodosius narrowed his eyes. First one, now the other of these upstarts had had the impudence to challenge him and that was unacceptable. The elder Theodosius, however, was still looking on benignly, glancing across to his son for the answer. Everybody else was staring at the floor, except Stephanus, who appeared to have what looked, to Theodosius, like a smirk on his face. ‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘As far as we know, he has not. We have had no reports of that. Anyway, Nectaridus seems to have underestimated him. He took three cohorts west. The survivors say they were ambushed south of there. We think he was on the way to his fortress at what the locals there call Caerdydd. If he could have made it to Isca, he’d have been safe.’

  ‘Isca?’ Stephanus had heard the name, but he was unsure where.

  ‘Base of the II Augusta,’ the Count told him. ‘Just as the VIth have been at Eboracum for ever, so have the II at Isca.’ He winked at Leocadius. ‘What makes you think it wasn’t Valentinus at Glevum?’

  Leocadius shrugged. ‘From what we know of the man, sir, he doesn’t try and fail. If he thought Glevum was too strong, he wouldn’t have so much as strung a bow.’

  ‘He’s testing us,’ the Count said. ‘Putting his toe in the water, so to speak. He’s probing our weaknesses, noting our strengths. Even so … Glevum; Caerdydd; Isca; he’s a long way from home.’

  ‘Further than you think,’ the younger Theodosius said. All eyes turned to him now. ‘There are other rumours,’ he said.

  A silence.

  ‘Well, come on, boy,’ his father said. 'Don't leave us dangling. You’re among friends.’

  Theodosius was not so sure. There was something about these new men he did not like. But he had been well brought up. His father had spoken and that was enough. At least for now. But he was not going to let the old man get off that lightly. ‘We understand,’ he said, ‘from our friends in the north,’ he swept his glacial smile in the direction of Leocadius and Vitalis, ‘that there is some sort of conspiracy involved; several tribes all working as one.’

  ‘That’s right,’ the Count nodded.

  ‘And they appear to be fighting in a new way, for barbarians, I mean. A Roman way.’

  ‘Right again,’ the elder Theodosius said. ‘What of it?’

  ‘What do you know about Aetius Varro, father?’

  ‘Varro … Varro …’ the Count was thinking. ‘Yes, I remember. Didn’t he challenge the Emperor over taxation? Saw himself as something of a man of the people, didn’t he, for all his aristocratic breeding?’

  His son nodded. ‘He was charged with treason in Rome four years ago, but because of his previous service – he’d fought in Dacia under the Emperor’s brother – he kept his head and was exiled instead …’

  ‘… to Britannia,’ the Count finished the sentence for him. ‘Mother of God, you’re right.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ Vitalis said.

  ‘Oh, it’s all quite logical,’ the elder Theodosius smiled, ‘and it explains a hell of a lot. It’s why he fights like a Roman – he is one. And all that nonsense with the masked helmet. It’s a symbol, to him at least.’

  ‘Do you know him, sir?’ Leocadius asked. ‘By sight, I mean?’

  ‘No.’ The Count shook his head. ‘I have not had the privilege.’

  ‘But why would they fight for him?’ Vitalis wanted to know. ‘The Picts, the Scotti, the Attacotti? Why would they throw in their lot with an enemy?’

  ‘Because he’s not an enemy,’ the younger Theodosius said. ‘My father said it all. He is a man of the people; has an uncanny ability to make the humblest peasant believe he’s on his side.’

  ‘Every problem,’ the Count said, ‘every thorn in the flesh of the people of Britannia, they lay at the door of the Romans. You should talk to a Gaul – they’re even worse.’

  ‘But he can't possibly think he can overthrow Rome,’ Leocadius threw his arms wide.

  ‘He doesn’t need to,’ the Count told him. ‘He’s already destroyed the Wall, God knows how many towns and villages. People have gone over to him in droves and they’re probably still doing it. He’s wiped out vexillations of two legions and killed the Dux Britannorum and the Count of the Saxon Shore; I wouldn’t mind having a war record like that.’

  The room fell silent.

  ‘So, what do you propose, father?’ Theodosius asked.

  The Count blew on his fingers, aware that all eyes were on him, playing for time, measuring his words. ‘We don’t know what this man looks like, whether he’s Aetius Varro or a pig’s bladder. And we don’t know how far his ears reach, either. I know there were people in Eboracum who were feeding him information. Why don’t we see what’s happening in Londinium?’

  ‘Consul! Consul!’ There was a thunder of sandalled feet on the stairs at the back of the basilica and Julius Longinus thrust his head out from under the covers. For a moment he did not know where he was or what time of day. It had to be day because the shafts of sunlight were streaming into the room and falling onto his bed.

  ‘What the hell is it, Albinus? Can't you see I’m busy?’

  ‘A thousand apologies, Consul.’ The slave hurtled into the room, stopped short and bowed. ‘There’s an army at the bridge.’

  'Don't talk … what?’ Longinus tried to sit up. ‘An army? Are you serious?’ He hauled up the covers and shouted at the girl writhing around on top of him, ‘Will you stop doing that?’ he screamed and then, more gently, ‘you’ll hurt yourself. Not to mention me.’ He dragged the sheets off them both and she screamed, doing her best to cover her nakedness. Normally, Albinus would have appreciated the view, but today his mind was elsewhere and his heart was in his mouth.

  The Consul was staring out of the window, trying to crane his neck far enough round to see the bridge.


  ‘It’s all right, Consul,’ Albinus gabbled, trying to keep them both calm. ‘They are ours.’

  ‘Ours, you feeble-minded idiot! Of course they’re ours. Who’s leading them, that’s the question.’

  ‘The Comus Rei Militaris, sir,’

  Longinus nearly dropped the sheets. ‘Theodosius? Here? Why wasn’t I told? Get the boys up here. I’ll need my robes – all of them. And wine – the good stuff; Theodosius’ll know the difference.’

  The slave scuttled away in a slap of sandal.

  ‘And get my wife out of bed,’ the Consul called after him. ‘I want her in the forum with all her ghastly people.’ He grimaced ruefully at the girl and was gone.

  Leocadius had never seen anything like it. The capital of Maxima Caesariensis was a city three times the size of Eboracum, with merchant ships riding at anchor along wharves bustling with people. To be fair, the bustling had stopped when the dust of Theodosius’ army became visible and as the Batavi and the Heruli stared at the dockside, the people of the dockside stared right back.

  Trumpets were blasting somewhere in the maze of narrow streets behind the waterfront as the garrison of Londinium tumbled out of their sacking and took post at the bridge head and fanned out along the wharves on either side. Red-tiled roofs, of shops and workshops and houses disappeared into the smoky distance and the stench of the tanneries crossed the river. Somewhere in the centre the basilica stood square and imposing, five times the height of a man and beyond a little stream to the west, the governor’s palace was thronged with officials struggling into robes of office.

  A heavy man wearing the robes of a consul was being carried in a litter along the waterfront towards the bridge, shouting at his struggling slaves to get a move on.

  ‘Now there’s a sight you don’t see often,’ Leocadius nudged Vitalis. ‘Some purple-shirt shitting himself to welcome us. Makes your heart glow, doesn’t it?’

  At the bridge-head, the man half fell off his litter before his slaves came to a halt and he hurried across the bridge on foot, a small army of hangers-on fluttering with him, all of them panting in their exertions under the noonday sun.