Britannia: Part I: The Wall

by Richard Denham

  The cloaked man shrugged. ‘Let’s just say I have an interest in men like you. Not, of course, that there are many men like you.’

  ‘I don’t enjoy riddles,’ Vitalis snapped. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘I am Decius Critus,’ the man held out his hand.

  ‘That’s half my questions answered,’ Vitalis did not take the outstretched sign of friendship. The more he learned of Londinium, the less he liked it.

  ‘God of the morning,’ Critus said, ‘God of the noontide and the sunset …’

  ‘… God of the midnight …’ Vitalis took up the prayer.

  ‘Look on your children in darkness,’ Critus whispered. Then he smiled, ‘You even have the look of Cautes about you.’

  Vitalis lowered his knife. ‘You’re a priest of Mithras,’ he said.

  Critus nodded. ‘And are you one of his children?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ the tribune told him, sheathing his dagger. ‘I know plenty of men who are … or perhaps I should say were. There were shrines aplenty along the Wall – Brocolitia, Vindolanda …’

  ‘And they are no more?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Vitalis told him. ‘I haven’t been back. Not for a while. Perhaps one day …’

  Critus looked at the lad’s face. ‘You’re lost, aren’t you, boy?’

  Vitalis looked at the priest. There was a light in his eyes he could not recognize and had never seen before. ‘We’ve lost our shrines, too,’ Critus said. ‘But we’ve rebuilt them. Not far from here. It’s a portal to another world. I can take you there. There, where the great bull dies.’

  Vitalis shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Perhaps another time.’

  Critus smiled. ‘Mithras has all the time in the world,’ he said. ‘When you’re ready.’

  ‘Yes, I …’ but Vitalis was already talking to himself. The priest of Mithras had vanished into the shadows from where he had come.

  It was nearly dawn when Leocadius wove his way unsteadily from the governor’s palace. He was tempted to run his head under one of the fountains to try to clear it, but he might not survive that and memories of the Ussos still came back to haunt his dreams from time to time. The city that never sleeps was already stirring, bleary eyed men making their way to the river front, women hauling water and children unbolting shutters that had kept out the night and all who flourished in the darkness. Soon the drovers would be on the road again from whatever mansio they had laid their head in, bringing their sheep and their cattle through the Bishop’s gate to the north.

  It was only his fourth day here and Leocadius had had a heavy night, so it was not surprising that he had not strayed too far from the governor’s palace before he realised he was lost. The buildings here were too tall to make out the walls of the camp and the river mist that wreathed these mean streets did not help. He was also aware, through the blur of his senses, that there was a curious echo to his steps. When he stopped, they stopped. He stamped one foot, then the other, as though he was back on the Wall again in some grim and frosty watch to the north, trying to get some feeling into his feet. There was no echo this time but as soon as he walked on he heard it again.

  Leocadius spun round, his head reeling as he did so. There was no one there, just a mangy dog wandering crossways and disappearing up an alley. In fact there were several alleyways off this street, the ground beaten flat and hard by a million sandals over time. Leocadius reached the next one and slipped silently around the corner, dagger in hand, waiting.

  Nothing. No shrouded figure hurrying past, no drunken sot weaving his way home. Leocadius took stock. The alleyway he was in smelt like a sewer and was clearly home to an army of black rats that sniffed the air for this newcomer and squeaked their annoyance at his intrusion. They scurried away as he walked on, keeping his dagger in his hand and his hand by his side. The next time he half turned, he saw someone. A large dark figure, just a silhouette that filled the space between the shacks. There was no room for a knife fight here, Leocadius realised and anyway, he had sunk too many at the table of Julius Longinus to be able to do himself justice. So he walked on, quickening his pace and trying to walk straight.

  Another figure filled the space ahead, as large and dark as the one behind him and he was forced to stop.

  ‘Well, well,’ a voice croaked. ‘We’ve got a lost one here, Antoninus.’

  ‘Looks like we have, Gillo. Shall we offer him directions?’

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ Gillo said. ‘Having got our fee first, of course.’

  Both of the men spoke Latin with the peculiar twang of the Thamesis.

  ‘Touch me and you’re dead men,’ Leocadius said, hoping the tone of his voice would send the necessary message.

  ‘Ooh!’ Antoninus wriggled in mock fear. ‘I’m quaking in my sandals, Gill, aren’t you?’

  ‘Quaking, Ant,’ his partner in crime nodded. ‘Wait a minute,’ he flicked up the fringed tassels on Leocadius’ sagum. ‘This bloke’s army, Ant. A bloody officer, no less.’ He peered closer at Leocadius’ scarf. ‘What’s that?’ he asked. ‘Tribune, isn’t it?’

  Leocadius’ knife came up, but he was far too slow. Gillo winced as the blade nicked his arm but Antoninus swung a lead cosh that thudded against the tribune’s temple and he fell heavily, hitting his shoulder on the far wall as he went down.

  ‘The bastard cut me!’ Gillo sucked the blood from his arm and drove his foot into the fallen man’s ribs. ‘The bastard!’

  ‘No, lay off, Gill.’ Antoninus stopped him. 'Don't ask me why, but I think Paulinus is going to want to have a word with this one. You do know who he is, don’t you?’

  ‘He’s a bastard,’ Gillo’s arm was beginning to stiffen already. ‘That much is obvious.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, of course. But that’s not all. He’s a hero of the bloody Wall, he is.’

  The two horsemen cantered onto the high ground to the south of the river. Below them, Londinium stretched east and west to its century-old walls, the river sparkling in the sun and the maze of streets packed with people.

  ‘Too many forests,’ Stephanus said. He was wearing his mail this morning but his shield and helmet he had left in his quarters at the fort.

  Count Theodosius was forced to agree. He had gone through three days of feasting and celebration but now it was time to get back to work. To the west, where a sizable tributary emptied into the Thamesis, a narrow wooden bridge led to the gate the people of Londinium had named after their ancient king, Lud. Beyond that, the newest gate of the city formed the north-west corner. That was the way Valentinus would come if he came from the site of his defeat of Nectaridus; and he would come out of the dark forests that Stephanus did not like, the ones that reminded him of his home. It had happened over three hundred years ago, but every Roman soldier had been told the tale of the Teutoberg Forest, when three legions had been hacked to pieces by the Germanii and their corpses nailed to trees. Not a good place to fight; not a good place to die.

  To Theodosius’ north, beyond the large and expensive villas that lay beyond Dalmatius’ church, another gate lay to the west of the camp. That had its own gate, low and turreted and then the wall ran east, unbroken, with the sluggish Walbrook trickling under it, until it reached the gate that Dalmatius was now calling his own. There was a final gate to the east and the gravestones of the cemetery beyond shone like white dots against the green. This was the way the Saxons would come, if they came at all, hitting the coast and sailing up the river, their warships churning the brown water and their swords sharp and ready. And always, Stephanus had said it, forests.

  ‘On a clear day,’ Theodosius said, half to himself, ‘You can't see for ever.’

  One thing was clear to both men. There was little chance of Valentinus attacking from the south. He could pick off the cluster of houses and the little quayside that lay directly below them, but then he would have to cross the Thamesis and there was only one bridge. The Count could hold that all day, like Horatius of old, while his Batavi,
like the water-serpents they were, would wreak havoc in the marshes to the south.

  ‘Looks like we’ve got some building to do,’ Stephanus said.

  ‘Yes,’ Theodosius nodded. ‘Leave that to me. In the next week, I want you and my son to ride west. Take half the Heruli, mostly cavalry. I have no intention of repeating the mistakes of Fullofaudes, but neither can I spare more men from here. Have you had a look at the town’s garrison yet?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stephanus nodded. ‘And I’m not impressed.’

  No,’ the Count sighed. ‘Neither am I. And there aren’t enough of them to man the entire wall, should it come to that.’

  Stephanus smiled. ‘But we’ve got the heroes of the Wall here, Count,’ he winked.

  Theodosius gave him an old fashioned look. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Haven’t we.’

  Leocadius could not make the words out very clearly. They were written in a bad hand at a crazy angle halfway up a wall. The Latin was average at best, but he got the gist. ‘If you can read this, cocksucker, it’s probably too late.’ He tried to move, but his head throbbed and opening his mouth was agony. There was a rattle of links and he realised he was chained to the ground by an iron ring.

  ‘It’s not very good, is it?’ A shaven headed man was lounging on a wide chair ornately gilded and hung with silk, ‘The writing, I mean. I was going to have it removed but it has that certain air of menace I rather like.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Leocadius asked, although the voice did not sound like his own.

  ‘Well, that’s refreshing,’ the other man said. ‘People usually come out with “where am I?” – such a cliché, don’t you think?’

  Leocadius pulled at the fetters that held him. He was able to sit up, but the bonds on both wrists prevented any more than that.

  ‘In answer to the question you didn’t ask, you are in Via Flumensis. It’s a long street and I doubt you’ll find the exact address again. In answer to the question you did ask, my name is Paulinus Hupo, general dealer.’

  ‘General dealer in what?’ Leocadius wanted to know. There was dried blood on his face and neck, browning the white of his scarf, but his purse still felt sufficiently heavy on his hip and the Wall ring was still on his finger.

  ‘Oh, the usual,’ Hupo shrugged. ‘Wine, salt, oysters, gold, silver, opals … people.’

  ‘Slaves, you mean.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Hupo smiled. ‘Take you, for instance. You are Leocadius, the newly appointed tribune of Theodosius’ field army; the man who saved the Wall.’

  The story was growing with the telling. ‘You’ve heard that?’

  ‘Oh, we’ve all heard it. Banna, Camboglanna – bloodbaths, they say. And of course the cavalry at Vinovia deserting, saddle, bridle and tethering ropes like that. Shocking.’ The bald man shook his head.

  ‘I didn’t know about that,’ Leocadius said.

  ‘Didn’t you?’ Hupo beamed. ‘It’s common knowledge down here. Look, Leo … er … you don’t mind if I call you Leo? I could use a man like you.’

  ‘What for?’ the tribune asked.

  ‘Oh, this and that. See through there?’ Hupo pointed through an archway to a courtyard where a fountain played. It was as big and impressive as Longinus’ in the governor’s palace. ‘That’s marble from Anatolia. The figurines are from Gaul. I only drink wine from Germania and my missus is positively dripping with emeralds from Egypt.’

  ‘How nice.’ Leocadius’ grin was acid.

  ‘Well, yes, it is. To use the language of the street, I’ve got a nice little number going here.’

  ‘You’re an importer?’ Leocadius was trying to follow the conversation.

  ‘After a fashion,’ Hupo said earnestly, as though discussing some high point of philosophy. ‘I believe appropriator of goods from importers would be more accurate.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re a thief.’ The tribune understood it now.

  ‘Tut, tut,’ Hupo frowned. ‘Such a word. And on the Sabbath, too – that’s the holy day of the Christians.’

  ‘Gripping,’ Leocadius grunted. ‘Are you going to undo these chains?’

  ‘No,’ Hupo stood up. ‘I have … people for that. We’ll meet again, Leo. Count on it.’ And he had gone.

  It was nearly noon when Vitalis crossed the square. A single bell was tolling and men, women and children of all classes were solemnly trooping in its direction. A large man riding a donkey rode at their head and at the door of a crumbling temple he eased himself out of the saddle while attendants fussed around him and placed an odd-looking pointed cap on his head. He looked around and saw Vitalis looking at him.

  ‘Are you going to join us, my son?’ he called, raising the first two fingers of his right hand over each supplicant who shuffled past him, nodding in his direction. Men tugged off their caps and women bobbed. Children too slow to do either got a clip around the ears from their elders.

  ‘Join you?’ Vitalis repeated, ‘For what?’

  The man left the blessing to an underling in the robes of the Chi-Rho and crossed the square to him. ‘For divine service,’ he said. ‘I am Dalmatius, the Bishop of Londinium.’

  Vitalis knew who he was. He had seen him drinking and feasting in the basilica and at the governor’s house. He thought it best to introduce himself but the bishop held up his hand. ‘No, no, my boy. I know who you are – and may I say what an honour it is to meet a man who has killed so many pagans.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘No, no,’ the bishop was clearly not going to let the man get a word in edgeways. ‘I know it is the Lord’s tenet that we must turn the other cheek and must not kill, but He cannot have meant us to include the heathen in that. Won't you join us?’

  Vitalis looked at the old building into which the people trickled to the tolling of the bell. It was plastered white, with cracks running all over it in the blistering sun of noon and on top of its porticos, headless gods looked down on the square. A huge Chi-Rho had been painted below the gable.

  ‘Yes, I know what you’re thinking. It used to be a temple to Jupiter non-believers still call “highest and best”. Blasphemy of course. And as soon as I have the funds, I shall tear this abomination down and build a real church, in the shape of the cross on which our Lord suffered, probably somewhere near my gate in the north east.’ The bell was tolling faster now as some shaven-headed priests inside swung it frantically to and fro. ‘You should hurry, my son,’ the bishop said. ‘The Count’s son will be along presently. Wouldn’t do to keep your Lord and master waiting … either of them.’ And he sketched the sign of the cross in the air. ‘In nomine patri …’

  ‘So you’re the hero of the Wall?’ a soft voice purred in the shadows of the courtyard along the Via Flumensis. Leocadius’ head jerked upright. He had been locked into this half-crouched position now for half a day and was grateful that the noonday sun did not penetrate Hupo’s gloom this far. From somewhere he heard a bell tolling in the distance but could not tell the direction.

  ‘I’m one of them,’ he said.

  ‘Which one are you?’ a girl undulated from the archway, her dark blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders and her dark brown eyes burning into his.

  ‘Leocadius,’ he said. ‘And you?’

  ‘You can call me Honoria,’ she said and proceeded to click a small key into a padlock just out of Leocadius’ reach. As soon as his wrists were free, he grabbed the girl from behind, twisting one arm up behind her back and holding his dagger at her throat.

  ‘You’re hurting me,’ she grimaced.

  ‘That’s the general idea,’ he hissed, prodding her chin higher with the blade tip. ‘You work for Hupo?’

  ‘Now and again,’ she said, finding talking difficult with her head thrown back to save the dagger point from pricking her neck.

  ‘You’re his woman.’

  ‘No,’ she shouted angrily and broke free of him. Leocadius was surprised. The girl was strong and had clearly caught him off his guard. He put it down to having been cramped
on the floor for so long. ‘I am nobody’s woman,’ she snarled.

  Leocadius looked at her. She moved like a cat, slow and graceful, her body swaying in delicious curves under her dress. Expensive jewellery glittered at her wrists and throat, the one that Leocadius had come so close to slitting.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I apologize.’ He pointed to his swollen head, purple under the hairline. ‘The man who did this, where will I find him?’

  ‘You won’t,’ she said, relaxing. ‘And let it stay that way. Londinium is a dangerous place … unless you know the right people.’

  ‘Are you the right people?’ he asked her.

  ‘I might be,’ she smiled. ‘Come on, let me look at that head. Your wrists need some attention, too,’ and she led him through the archway into the marble courtyard where the fountain played. A slave arrived with a tray, wine and goblets and filled them both. Then another turned up, this time carrying pots of unguent and bandages of lint. Honoria sat Leocadius down and passed him a cup. Only now did he sheath the dagger. Only now did he let himself be touched.

  She poured a white liquid onto some lint and carefully wiped and patted the gashed temple. Leocadius winced, despite himself. ‘And here’s me,’ she said, ‘thinking you were a great hero. And you’re just a little boy.’

  ‘Not so little,’ he said, running a hand along her hips towards the opening of her robe. ‘Honoria; that’s funny.’

  ‘What is?’ She ignored the wandering fingers and kept stroking his head.

  ‘My name is Honorius. Leocadius Honorius. What would you call that; fate?’ His face was close to hers and his lips closed onto her mouth. He could smell the sweet fragrance of her hair, some exotic oil no doubt that Paulinus Hupo had appropriated from somewhere.

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide. ‘No, she said. ‘I would call that one of the feeblest lines I’ve ever heard.’ And she suddenly slapped another piece of lint on Leocadius’ forehead. This one was soaked in vinegar. ‘Smarts, doesn’t it?’ she said.