Britannia: Part I: The Wall

by Richard Denham

  CHAPTER XI

  Brigantia, Autumnus

  The fire was burning in the officers’ quarters of Arbeia that night, the wood shifting and crackling as the sparks flew upwards. The centurion Paternus was not warming his toes with the others; he was wandering the granaries of the camp, filled again with the fruit of the harvest. A stiff wind was blowing along the Tinea, a river usually lost in the green, swirling fog of the north-east.

  Over the last two months, men of the Jovii and the Victores, under the watchful eye of the engineer Rutilius, had built four sea towers and rebuilt Arbeia, the most easterly of the forts of the Wall. While the cavalry threw out screens to the north and west and general Maximus rode with them, the tribune Justinus felt a little like his old man, putting the legions through their paces in the confines of a marching fort. Day after day he watched them jumping in full armour, now landing on two feet, now on one, leaping to the numbered squares the centurions had marked out. It strengthened the leg muscles and gave accuracy and precision to work at close quarters with sword and spear.

  Paternus watched the day vanishing into the west and the darkness rolling in over the sea. When they had reached Arbeia, the place was a shambles, rotting corpses strewn by the river bank, clustered deeper by the gates. The wolves of the Wall had loped, grey and silent, over the stones when blood was still warm and had snarled and bickered at each other, fighting over the choicest cuts. Then the foxes had come in the night and the rooks and ravens in the day before they left the real carrion to the rats.

  The Romans had dug a huge grave pit to the south of the fort and laid the bones in it; Roman, Scotti, Pict, who could tell. Seen one bleached bone, seen them all and it proved, if proof were needed, that in the end all men come to the skull beneath the skin. There were older graves here, the ones Paternus ran his fingers over now. On one of them, Victor, long dead, lived on in stone, lounging on a couch while a slave filled his goblet with cold, grey wine. How Victor would hate it, that the dust of the slave could now be mingled with his and no man knew who was who. Nearby, Regina of the Catuvellauni to the far south, sat in her basket chair, with a distaff and wool beside her. At her feet was carved her name and tribe in Latin and another line in a language Paternus could not read.

  The centurion turned away. It may be, and he thought of this every day, that he had ridden over the grave of his wife that morning or marched past the long-rotted remains of his son. For all his promise to Justinus and his vow to Sol Invictus, these dead ones, these beloved, were at his elbow always and he could never forget them. ‘Quin. Quin.’

  ‘Io, Paternus!’ He turned at the sound of his name. He had just been thinking of Justinus and here he was, cloak-wrapped against the night, striding over Rutilius’ new ditches and piles of timber. ‘The General wants a word.’

  Those who fought under Maximus in those bitter autumn days reckoned their fortunes by his dog. To the General himself, the dog was a softie, rolling over to have his belly tickled and licking sauce from the great man’s fingers. To anybody else, he was Cerberus, the beast that guarded the entrance to hell. On a good day, he would snarl at passers-by. If he snapped, the General was displeased. If he pissed over your boots, you might just as well drive a blade into your bowels and have done.

  Paternus did not believe any of this nonsense, but he was not sorry to see that Bruno was curled up and snoring as he entered the general’s quarters. All the way from the granaries, Justinus had stayed tight-lipped. Yes, he knew what Maximus wanted. No, he could not say anything. Paternus would have to live with that.

  ‘We’ve had a message from the south,’ Maximus had one leg up on a stool and a goblet in his hand. ‘The man came by ship this afternoon. It’s from Papa Theodosius. All goes well. He’s fortifying Londinium and has seen no sign of Valentinus.’ The general threw down the vellum and took a swig from his cup. ‘You know, I could get used to this ale stuff. Oh, it’s not good Iberian wine, of course …’

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’ Paternus asked.

  ‘Not quite,’ Maximus said. ‘There’s news, too, of your chums of the Wall, your other halves, if you will.’

  ‘Oh?’ Paternus was more interested now.

  ‘Theodosius has turned them into pets. They are, apparently, feted wherever they go. Nothing is too much trouble for men who held the Wall.’ He paused. ‘Just the two of them.’ He paused again. ‘All seventy three miles of it.’

  Paternus stifled a smile. He could not imagine Vitalis going along with any of that nonsense, but it carried all the hallmarks of Leocadius. The man had never met a tale he could not make taller. ‘That’s good news, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Maximus stood up. ‘Well, gentlemen, I mustn’t keep you. Tribunes’ meeting in half an hour. Something’s come up.’

  The Wall heroes saluted.

  ‘Paternus, I want you there too,’ the general said.

  ‘Sir?’ The first centurion was surprised.

  ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ Maximus smiled. ‘Must be this beer. As of now, you’re a tribune. Supernumerary, of course. Pay won't come through until hell freezes over.’

  ‘Sir, I …’ Paternus was about to protest and Maximus knew it. He was not sure he liked this man with his strange reclusive habits and his sickening honesty; on the other hand, he could do with more like him when it came to the clash of shields.

  'Don't give me all that bollocks about how you don’t deserve it.’ Maximus wagged a finger at him. ‘The sole reason I’m doing this is that the Count has promoted your pals to that glorious elevation – in my opinion, far above their ability, but there it is – so it’s only right you get the same deal.’

  Paternus knew when a deal had been struck and a bargain made and he just saluted and said, ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Maximus closed to him, all bonhomie gone, the smile a scowl. ‘And if you let me down, tribune,’ he said, levelly, ‘I will break you. Depend on it.’ He looked across at Justinus framed in the doorway. ‘Still here, tribune?’ he snapped.

  ‘I was just wondering, general,’ Justinus said. ‘The tribunes’ meeting – what exactly has come up?’

  ‘“Exactly” would be difficult to quantify, Justinus,’ he said, taking the final gulp of his draught. ‘All I know is that Valentinus has been spotted north of here. Tomorrow, we cross the Wall.’

  As far as anyone in Magnus Maximus’ command knew, no Roman soldier had crossed the Wall for over a year. The forts to the west, from Segedunum to Maia, still lay in ruins, their dead unburied, weeds growing from their toppled stones. The engineer Rutilius was itching to get his hands on them and start rebuilding, but Maximus did not have the troops to cover the whole area. He was hurrying slowly, as the old adage had it, because he had no intention of losing a fort again.

  There had been rumours before. Valentinus had been seen in Eboracum to the south. He was living in Vindolanda along the Wall. He had stolen Theodosius’ transports riding at anchor in the Abus. Magnus Maximus’ legions had elected him Caesar and he was on his way to Rome to take up his new position. But this was different. Because it came from Dumno.

  The little man sat in the centre of a circle of Roman officers that night as the fire crackled. He had a small table in front of him and on it, a platter of bread and cheese into which he tucked heartily.

  ‘Tell these gentlemen,’ Maximus said, ‘what you told me earlier.’

  Dumno stopped chewing and swallowed hard. Of the faces around the room, the only ones he knew were Justinus and Paternus. ‘I have heard,’ he said, his Latin sounding a little rusty after all these weeks without speaking it, ‘that the man you are looking for has crossed into Votadini territory.’ He took a swig of Maximus’ wine.

  ‘Where from?’ the general asked.

  ‘The south. Or west. Maybe the south-west.’

  Maximus raised an eyebrow in Justinus’ direction. The tribune could not leave it at that. ‘Come on, Dumno,’ he said. ‘You can do better than that.’

  ‘W
ell, I …’ the arcanus was having trouble with his geography.

  ‘Thirty sesterces,’ Maximus said. ‘That’s my final offer.’

  ‘South-west.’ Dumno suddenly saw the light, especially when it flashed from silver coins. ‘They say … but I can’t believe this, excellency …’

  ‘What do they say?’ Maximus’ patience was wearing thin.

  ‘They say he defeated the Count of the Saxon Shore, wherever that is.’

  ‘Yes, we know that,’ Maximus told him. ‘Come over here, little man.’

  The general had slid back his chair and walked over to a map that his staff had drawn up of the Wall and the lands to the north and south. ‘We are here,’ Maximus said. ‘Arbeia. These,’ he pointed north, ‘are the Votadini lands. Where do you say Valentinus is?’

  ‘Well, I got it from Raffa. And he heard it from Mog Ruith. But Gwythir thinks …’

  ‘Yes,’ Maximus cut him short, ‘I’m so glad you have friends,’ although judging by the smell of the man, they could not be very discerning. ‘What’s your best evidence?’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Dumno frowned at the wall picture. ‘I’m not very good at maps. And my written Latin isn’t up to much either … Does this say “Votadini”?’

  Maximus nodded.

  ‘And what are these?’ The arcanus was pointing to supply depots that the general had set up to the south, complete with ballistae ammunition and spare horses.

  ‘Nothing,’ Maximus said, ‘that need concern you. Where do your contacts tell you Valentinus is?’

  For a long time, Dumno stared at the map, trying to make sense of it all. Then he took a deep breath, screwed up his courage and pointed. ‘There,’ he said. ‘He crossed the river the Votadini call Blyth a week ago. Winter’s coming. Can you feel it?’ he pulled his rabbit skin cloak tighter, for all the fire was blazing. ‘He’ll want somewhere to hole up.’ Dumno looked at the officers sitting in their circle. ‘Against men like these, I’d be hiding in a hole in the ground,’ he said.

  ‘How many men does he have?’ Maximus asked.

  ‘Three, four hundred at most,’ Dumno said. ‘They say – and Mog Ruith was positive about this – his bands have broken up. They won’t raid too far from home, you see.’

  ‘And where is home?’ Maximus asked. ‘Where exactly do these people come from?’

  Dumno spread his arms, looking for Justinus and Paternus. ‘Ask them,’ he said. ‘They’ve seen them.’ He looked at the others. ‘You’ve all faced them, haven’t you? At the headland of the two bays? Raffa told me you wiped out ten thousand Picts.’

  ‘Oh, we did,’ Maximus smiled. ‘Before dinner. We got down to the serious business later. All right, arcanus. See my quarter master for the money.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Dumno bobbed in front of the general. ‘If I can be of further service …’ and he grabbed his last chunk of bread and ducked out into the night.

  He had not got far when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The little man stopped in his tracks and spun round to face Justinus. ‘Master?’ Dumno cringed. He had been beaten by Romans before.

  ‘When I saw you last, arcanus,’ he said, ‘You were riding south out of Eboracum as I recall.’

  ‘Ha.’ Dumno laughed without humour. ‘Indeed I was.’

  ‘So what are you doing back here?’

  ‘Have you been to the south?’ Dumno’s face took on a mask of horror.

  ‘Point taken,’ Justinus said.

  ‘Do you know,’ Dumno said, a smile playing over his lips, ‘On the general’s map back there … I think I read the name “Selgovae”. Did I? My homeland?’

  The tribune nodded.

  ‘I haven’t been back for a while.’ Dumno’s eyes were suddenly filled with tears. ‘Not since my family …’ He cleared his throat and dabbed his eyes with his rabbit fur. ‘Tell me, sir,’ he said, ‘When you catch this Valentinus, what will you do to him?’

  Justinus’ smile was dark in the half light of the camp. ‘Believe me,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to know.’

  They crossed the Wall a little after first light the next day. The Jovii remained behind with orders to hold the camp. Maximus would send a galloper back each day with news and the exact position of his troops. If no rider came, the Jovii were to prepare for a siege. If the siege failed, there would be no falling back to the Abus or Eboracum. Magnus Maximus expected the Jovii to die to the last man.

  The savage winds of autumn were biting from the sea, filling cloaks and billowing them outwards, ruffling the scarlet and black plumes of the marching men. The cavalry advanced in open order, using the old army road north, probing the country as they went. The river called the Blyth lay a day’s march north but there was no way of knowing which way Valentinus had crossed or whether he was still there.

  Maximus had given orders that the marching column must appear bigger than it was. His four thousand soldiers must look like ten thousand and he spaced his units accordingly. On the wings of the column the lines of pedes looked solid, their shields a single line of colour in the morning. In the centre, though, were gaps between the units; and the baggage train, with its ballistae and timbers for the marching camps, was ringed by the largest men.

  The general himself rode with his staff and his tribunes at the rear and scouts ahead reported back to him every hour. In the event of an attack, this galloper system would break down, but the general would switch to another plan. And men like Magnus Maximus always had another plan.

  Surprise was pointless in this gods-forsaken open country. There was no tree to be seen, no thick forest to provide cover for an ambush. So the general ordered his men to sing and the drums to beat. A Roman soldier might march to his death in silence, but on the way there, he would roar his lungs out and the enemy who heard him would fade away …

  Before the sun had set on that first day’s march, Maximus halted his column and ordered the camp set up. While the cavalry circled the perimeter and the infantry set to to raise a rampart and double ditch, the general and his staff rode north to where the river wound its way eastward to the sea. Ahead, in the half light, the mountains of Caledonia stood, snow-capped already, a darker purple against the mauve of the sky.

  ‘Justinus,’ Maximus turned in his saddle. ‘Is this a part of the world you know?’

  The tribune shook his head. ‘Never this far east,’ he said. ‘But the Votadini should be friendly.’ He smiled at a sudden memory. ‘My father always says he dines out on being the last man to cross swords with them. But when he did … And then he will tell you every bit of nonsense in the soldiers’ handbook. They were all twenty feet tall and picked their teeth with fir trees.’

  There were chuckles all round.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Maximus, ‘let’s hope your pa is prone to a little exaggeration, shall we?’

  Flavius Coelius may have been a little prone, but not much. True, the warriors facing Maximus the next day were not twenty feet tall, but too many of them were six feet and they were armed to the teeth. They stood along the far bank of the Blyth, swollen and turbulent with recent rains and looked at the Roman horsemen facing them. They had not moved by the time a galloper had ridden back to Maximus or by the time Maximus had arrived with his numbers.

  He ordered the cohorts to fan out in battle array and placed his six onagers between then, rocks piled alongside each, ready to hurl death across the river. Both armies were out of range of arrows and sling shot and they waited until one or the other of them blinked.

  ‘I thought you said they would be friendly,’ Maximus grunted to Justinus, sitting his horse alongside him. His dog looked prettier than any of them.

  ‘I believe I said “should be”, General,’ the tribune reminded him.

  ‘All right. Justinus, you and Paternus speak their language, don’t you?’

  ‘Sort of,’ the tribune said.

  ‘Right. Take a vexillum to let them know who we are and a white flag to let them know our intentions. Do you see a man over there in a si
lver parade helmet?’

  Justinus did not. And he had been looking for the past half an hour. That said, Dumno may have been right. Valentinus may not have crossed the Blyth but the Votadini ahead were going to make sure the Romans did not either. He turned his horse’s head and walked it over to find Paternus, sitting at the head of his cohort. ‘Get yourself a white flag, Pat,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have a nice little chat down by the river.’

  As the pair made their way over the grasslands cropped short by Votadini sheep, shouts and insults greeted them. The warriors on the far bank carried huge axes and long, rough spears. Above their heads a boar, bristled and tusked, glowered at them in effigy from the top of a standard and a horned god, carved and painted in gold, watched the invaders come on.

  ‘Think they’ll know what a white flag means?’ Justinus grunted as they reached the gentle rise which fell away to the river.

  ‘Perhaps they’ll think it’s target practice,’ Paternus said, watching the bowmen carefully. ‘There aren’t as many of them as I thought at first.’

  ‘True,’ Justinus nodded. ‘But then, there aren’t as many of us, either.’ Both men were looking east and west. Fullofaudes had ridden head on against an enemy like this and they had crushed him from both sides and from behind. Perhaps the same had happened to Nectaridus. ‘Here we go.’

  A knot of horsemen was picking its way along the sheep tracks beyond the river. The ground was steeper over there and the going more difficult. Justinus was relieved to find that one of their number carried a white flag too, a scrap of linen tied to a pole. And just as he carried the vexillum with its woven letters ‘Victores’, so one of the Votadini held his standard aloft, the horned god Belatucadros, the shining one.

  By the time they reached the river, a single rider came forward, mounted on a bay gelding and wearing, unlike most of the others, a mail shirt and iron helmet. Under it, the hair fell in long, dark ringlets.

  ‘This is Gododdyn land,’ the rider said, ‘that you call Votadini. The shining one lives here. Who are you and what do you want?’