‘What do you mean?’ Longinus asked.
‘I mean,’ the general dealer quaffed his wine and stood up, ‘that I must be going. Oh, by the way, it is the Ides of Februarius …’
‘Yes, yes,’ Longinus waved him aside. ‘Albinus will leave the money in the usual place. What about that girl you mentioned? The one from Cyrenaica?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Hupo smiled. ‘The athletic one.’ Then he frowned. ‘Are you sure you’re up to it, Julius? I mean, a man of your years?’
‘My years are fine, thank you,’ he said, affronted.
Hupo laughed. ‘Just say the word, then. I’m keeping her warm for you.’
‘Consider the word said,’ the consul smiled.
Albinus, the keeper of secrets, left the money in the usual place and one of Hupo’s people, who could keep secrets too, collected it. Then Hupo threw a banquet, a modest one, it was true; in fact it was more of an intimate supper and there was only one guest. It was the tribune, Leocadius Honorius.
‘How’s the wine, Leo?’ Hupo asked. ‘An amusing little palate-tickler from Gaul.’
‘It’s good,’ Leocadius said. From somewhere a lyre was playing a gentle love song and scantily clad girls brought in the various courses. The food was magnificent; Leocadius’ palate was honed on fine foods now and he savoured every mouthful. The fish sauce alone was to die for.
‘’Have you given any thought to my offer?’ Hupo asked.
‘Would that would be the one you made me when I was chained to your floor?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ Hupo frowned, as if he meant it. ‘But these are dangerous times, tribune. I can't be too careful. Let me show you something.’
He clapped his hands and two slaves emerged from behind a curtain carrying a large chest between them. It was bound with iron bands and padlocked. Hupo opened it with a curiously shaped key and hauled open the lid. Inside was more money than Leocadius had seen in his life. It could have built five forts along the Wall and kept a Wall soldier in clover for ever.
‘That’s quite a fortune,’ he managed after nearly a minute in silence with his mouth open.
‘And that’s only part of it,’ Hupo said. ‘Unlike these barbarians who I understand bury their loot in one place, mine is sensibly scattered.’
‘Where does it come from?’ Leocadius asked.
Hupo laughed. The lad was more naive than he thought. ‘Hush money, protection money, a few dues creamed off here and there. You might say I’m a farmer. I farm taxes.’
‘I’m a soldier,’ Leocadius shrugged. ‘I don’t see how I would fit into all this.’
‘Exactly,’ Hupo smiled. ‘You’re a soldier.’
Without warning, the general dealer was on his feet, a knife in his hand, thrusting at Leocadius through the air. One of the girls screamed. The tribune dodged sideways, rolling off the couch and caught Hupo’s wrist. He banged it hard on a marble stand and the dagger clattered to the floor. Now it was Leocadius’ turn. His knife was glittering at Hupo’s throat and the man fell backwards until there was nothing but wall behind him. The slaves hurtled through their curtain but Hupo flicked his fingers and they stood still. His eyes were wide because Leocadius’ blade tip was still pricking the skin of his neck.
‘What’s going on?’ Leocadius asked, wondering how he could take on all three of these men.
‘Call it a little test,’ Hupo’s voice was rather strangulated. ‘You passed with flying colours.’
‘Good for me,’ Leocadius said. ‘What’s your point?’
‘You’re a soldier,’ Hupo said, easing the blade-tip aside. ‘You kill people for a living. And you’re pretty good at it too. I sensed that when you gave my man Gillo a bloody arm. But you were pissed that night. I wanted to see what you can do when you’re sober.’
‘So,’ Leocadius lowered the dagger. ‘You’ve seen. Now what?’
Hupo ordered the slaves away and slammed the chest shut. He would pick up his dagger later when Leocadius would not be there to misconstrue the move and when the swelling in his arm had gone down. He sat back on the couch and waited as a girl mopped the floor and refilled their cups. ‘My people,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘call themselves the Black Knives. Oh, I know, it’s deliciously melodramatic, isn’t it? But that side of my business needs work – the protection side. I’ve got enough men but up against a wharf rat sometimes, it doesn’t go so well. Can you give them a few tips? For serious money, of course.’
‘What, you mean, train them, like an army?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’
Leocadius laughed. ‘You want Flavius Coelius for that,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Never mind.’ Leocadius’ smiled faded. ‘Just someone I used to know along the Wall.’
‘All that’s behind you, Leo,’ Hupo said. ‘All that Wall nonsense. This is Londinium, by Bacchus. It’s a city that’s going places, believe me. One day it’ll rival Rome itself.’
Leocadius laughed but he saw that Hupo was not joining him.
‘You can be part of it,’ Hupo went on. ‘It won't interfere with your duties overmuch. There’s a handsome salary. As much wine and as many girls as you can handle.’
‘Sounds like a soldier’s dream,’ Leocadius said.
‘So you accept?’ Hupo asked.
It was the end of Martius when Decius Critus sent for Vitalis. He sent for others, too, many more children of the darkness, but they did not meet in the secret temple by the Walbrook. Bishop Dalmatius was on the warpath again, he whose cult demanded that men love each other and turn the other cheek. So Critus hired a room over one of the tabernae to the east of the city where each day Theodosius’ troops were climbing ladders with stones and bricks, fortifying sections of the wall and building towers, the bastions of which jutted out into the river mud.
One by one the adherents of Mithras made the sign of the bull’s horns with their fingers and ducked under the low portico. There was a table in the centre and on it an ewer chased in silver. Beside it stood a goblet, carved in ivory and brought all the way from Egypt and the edge of the world to the south. Critus sat at one end of the table, the torch-bearers to his left and right. They were the priests of Mithras and only they were allowed to speak.
‘The time is now,’ Critus said. ‘Dalmatius and his Christians have pushed us too far. They destroyed our old shrine and now we are told they are looking for the new one. Well, no more. We will strike first. Your job, all of you, whatever your walk of life, is to seek these Christians out. Discover their plans if you can. Above all, find out their festivals.’
‘We know,’ ‘Cautes’ said, ‘that they have stolen the Saturnalia and pretend that that was the time of their Galilean’s birth.’
‘But there is another festival coming,’ ‘Cautoprates’ said, ‘when the Romans of Judea put him to death. On the third day, they believe, he rose from the dead …’
There were guffaws and there was table-thumping.
‘That is when we will strike,’ Critus silenced it. ‘But we need exact times.’ He looked along the table. ‘Vitalis,’ he said. ‘You are the newest of our band. That will be your job.’
Vitalis wanted to speak, to protest, but he knew the rules of the order and he could not.
‘Cautes’ poured the wine into the goblet and passed it to Critus who drank from it.
‘Behold,’ he said, ‘the blood of the bull that died for us.’
‘Behold,’ the torch-bearers intoned, ‘the blood of the bull.’ And the goblet passed from both of them along the table, man to man. When it reached Vitalis, he put the cup to his lips, but he did not drink. Had he embraced one god, just to kill another?
CHAPTER XIV
Londinium, Ver
‘But why didn’t you come?’ Julia whispered, ‘like you said you would?’
Leocadius spread his arms wide. ‘Duty, my lady,’ he lied. ‘A tribune has many duties. But,’ he glanced around the corner, ‘I’m here now. Tell me, are yo
ur slaves still blind, deaf and dumb?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she giggled. The cold of the winter had given way to a warm spring but it was nearly two by the candle and a chill breeze was blowing off the river. Julia’s apartment lay to the north-east, furthest from the appalling smell of the Walbrook and armed guards from the garrison patrolled the forecourt, with its twinkling fountains and its sentinel lions of stone. A tribune of the VI attached to the staff of Count Theodosius could simply walk past these men and they would jump to attention and salute, but that was not how Leocadius wanted to play it. Rolling in the bed of Honoria or any other lady of the Londinium night was one thing, but Julia came of a titled family, the daughter of the Consul, no less and he had to be careful. Besides, it all added to the adventure of the thing.
It had been some weeks since he had promised to come to her and if she had, indeed, been keeping herself warm for him as he had asked, she must be at boiling point by now. She took his hand and led him through the garden, along paths edged with clipped hawthorn, the slight fragrance from the few open blossoms promising that spring was really here at last. Damn Luna – her moon was huge tonight, making the grounds of the governor’s palace as bright as day. They tiptoed up the steps to the side door – at least it was dark in the shadows here and he listened to the crunch of the guards’ boots as she fumbled noiselessly with the latch. Inside it was cool and dark and this was not a part of the palace Leocadius had been to before. Still holding his hand, she led him along a landing open at one side where the trees of the atrium stood. She held her finger to her lips as both of them heard talking. They flattened themselves against the plaster of a wall along which naked nymphs and cherubs cavorted, dancing with Bacchus in a frieze that stretched out of sight. Leocadius peered over the rail. The Count was saying goodnight to the consul, each man in his cups, clapping the other on the back and ambling towards the front door which slaves swung open for them and they disappeared outside.
‘He’ll be back in a minute,’ she hissed. ‘This way. Quick.’ She let go of his hand so that she could lift her dress and ran, sandal-footed across the landing, the tribune running behind. He was not wearing his regulation boots tonight or the whole escapade might have come to an end then and there. As it was, Julius Longinus, returning across the atrium, caught sight of a fleeting shadow; but he put that down to too much wine and went to bed.
In the doorway, Julia pointed along the corridor,’ Mama’s room,’ she mouthed, almost silently. Leocadius nodded. She was the last person in the entire palace he wanted to wake up. He pressed against the girl in the doorway and it opened gently. With a practised hand, he closed it behind him and locked it, all the time kissing the girl’s cheeks and neck. When both his hands were free, he held her face in his and kissed her full on the lips. They were parted for him already and before she knew it, he was untying the thongs of her dress and letting it slip to the ground. Naked in the moonlight, she shuddered for him and he ran his tongue over her bare shoulders and down to her breasts. Her breathing was ragged now, but he would take his time, teasing her, making her wait.
Julia had never been this way before but it was a road the tribune knew well. He lifted her off the ground in his powerful arms and carried her over to the bed. While he fondled her and she opened her legs for him, she kept her eyes wide open the whole time, willing him to be gentle, trusting herself to him. She was trembling all over, breathing heavily as he took her, increasing the tempo imperceptibly until she wrapped her legs around his body and he stifled her screams with the deepest of kisses.
Stephanus was out early with his Heruli cavalry the next day. They were travelling north-west, in the direction of the forests, following the Roman road that led to Verulamium. There was a village off to the left, perhaps ten huts, with lazy smoke climbing to the blue of the spring sky. All was calm, as it should be and Stephanus had passed this way a dozen times before. The sun was in the sign of Aries and Venus, the goddess of love herself, presided over the time.
Little children were playing at the edge of the village as their mothers milked the goats and fed the geese. They seemed to be squabbling, as children will, over something being passed from hand to hand.
‘It’s my turn!’ one of them shrilled.
‘No, it’s not. You’ve already had it once!’
‘I want it!’
Stephanus had been in Britannia long enough to be able to pick up the gist of this conversation and he was about to ride on, with his patrol smiling indulgently at his back when he hauled hard on the rein and sat still. His black mare shook her head and champed the bit at this sudden command from the man on her back.
As he looked, one of the children picked up something from the grass and put it on his head. It was much too big for him and it was a cavalry parade helmet, the dull, flat visor carved into a blank face of solid silver, except for the eyes and mouth. The little boy wearing it laughed and ran about, chased by the others shouting ‘Me! Me!’ until he fell over, unable to see where he was going and dizzy at the same time.
But it was not a playfellow who pulled him upright; it was a huge man in a coat of mail with long blond hair and a vast moustache. The boy screamed, the sound eerie in the echo of the helmet. The women came running, one or two with knives and pots in their hands. Stephanus ripped off the helmet. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked, his Latin strange and guttural.
‘Tell the nice gentleman,’ his mother said, holding out her hand. The boy ran to her and buried his face in the folds of her rags.
‘Sextus found it,’ the lad whispered.
‘Sextus?’ another woman said. A taller boy walked reluctantly across to her. ‘Did you find that helmet?’ She shook him until he felt his teeth rattle.
‘Yes,’ he admitted, tears bubbling in his eyes.
‘Where?’ Stephanus wanted to know.
The boy pointed.
‘Show me,’ the German said and, springing into his saddle, bent down and scooped the boy up, pushing him over the pommel, his body held in place by Stephanus’ arms. He looked down at the woman. ‘If I like his answer, I’ll bring him back,’ he said. ‘If not, I’ll eat him.’
The men of the patrol chuckled grimly and wheeled away, riding behind their leader at the boy’s direction. About half a mile away the ground fell away to the side of the road to form a cleft in the hillside. Stone had been quarried here at some time in the past, but the place was disused now and a tangle of brambles covered the weathered blocks and crevices.
‘Down there,’ the boy pointed. Leaving the lad on the horse, Stephanus dismounted and scrambled down the crumbling rocks. At first he saw nothing, hacking through the brambles with his sword. Then he gave a shout and two of the riders swung out of their saddles and joined him. Half way into the undergrowth lay the body of a man. Most of the flesh had gone from his bones and the tendons of the jaw had gone so it looked for all the world as if the corpse was laughing at some long forgotten, obscene joke. The sword had gone but the belt was still there, studded with brass and turquoise. So was most of the armour – a coat of overlapping scales each one forged from beaten brass; a coat like that would pay the Heruli for six months.
‘Was it on his head?’ Stephanus asked the boy, secretly impressed if young Sextus had had the nerve to remove it.
‘Nearby,’ the lad said. ‘Over there.’
All that lay there now was moss clinging to the dead trunk of a fallen oak. Whatever trail there may have been had gone cold. Stephanus climbed out of the quarry with the others. He pointed his sword briefly at Sextus, then laughed and slammed it into his scabbard. ‘All right,’ he said in his clipped Latin. ‘Let’s get you home. I’m not very hungry today, anyway.’
That day of the Sun, Vitalis went to Bishop Dalmatius’ church that had once been a temple. The sun was streaming in through the high windows where the statues of Jupiter Highest and Best had once stood and the light flashed on the plain brass cross on the altar.
One by one the celebrants trooped up t
o the rail, kneeling before the bishop in his tall mitre and snow-white stole, the cope beneath it worked in gold and silver thread. He passed each man, woman and child a goblet etched with the Chi-Rho of the risen Christ and said, in ringing Latin, ‘O Lamb of God, that takes away the sins of the world.’ The congregation mumbled their responses, in Latin more garbled than his and a priest held up a banner with the Agnus Dei, woven in gold. ‘This is the blood of Christ,’ Dalmatius boomed. ‘Drink this in remembrance of me.’
When everyone who had gone to the high altar had drunk and taken the bread which was the body of Christ and returned to their places, Dalmatius mounted a pulpit set to one side and scanned the upturned faces. Children were told to be quiet and to stand still by parents anxious not to offend either their God or his bishop.
‘This,’ said Dalmatius, ‘is the day of Saint Georgius, who died in the service of the Lord.’
‘Praise the Lord!’ the congregation boomed. All of them, that is, except Vitalis, who stood at the back, watching the throng of Christians before him.
‘He was a soldier,’ Dalmatius said, ‘whose father was a soldier before him. And he rose to the rank of tribune in the days of Diocletian.’ His eyes fell on Vitalis, the same Vitalis who was a child of darkness and whose back still carried the marks of the Mithras whips. ‘We have a tribune with us today,’ the bishop said, ‘in these days of Valentinian.’
All eyes turned to follow the bishop’s gaze and Vitalis wanted the ground to swallow him up.
‘When Diocletian ordered that all Christians worship pagan idols, Georgius refused. He gave his fortune to the poor and suffered as our Lord suffered, not on the cross of martyrdom but by the pincers and the red-hot iron. He cried to God in his agony to bring down fire and destroy the pagan temple that Diocletian had set up. Just as we destroyed the temple of Mithras that the Evil One allowed to exist in our midst.’
His voice was raising in a relentless crescendo. ‘They cut off the head of the tribune Georgius,’ he screamed, ‘as we cut off the head of their bull. So the enemies of Christ shall be scattered and He will triumph.’ He waited until his fiery words had sunk into the brain of everyone there, then, with calm restored, he raised his hand and blessed the congregation. ‘Go in peace,’ he said, ‘with the kiss.’
Britannia: Part I: The Wall Page 21
