Britannia: Part I: The Wall

by Richard Denham

  ‘I … don’t believe I am needed here, sir,’ the tribune said. ‘We’ve heard nothing of Valentinus now for months and all seems quiet.’

  ‘It does,’ Theodosius had to agree. ‘Anxious to get back to the Wall?’

  ‘No,’ Vitalis said coldly. ‘No, I shall never go back there.’

  The Count chuckled. ‘I don’t think I can promote you any higher, tribune,’ he said, ‘Wall hero or not.’

  ‘I don’t want promotion, Count,’ Vitalis said. ‘I have other callings now.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Theodosius was on his feet, looking into the boy’s face, trying to read his mind. Then he sniffed, took a swig of wine and said curtly, ‘Well, technically, you’re on my son’s staff. Have it out with him.’

  ‘Resign?’ the younger Theodosius slapped the backside of the slave girl who was lolling on his lap and sent her packing. ‘What in God’s name for?’

  Vitalis had become quite used to visiting the governor’s palace. It was always full of officers and merchants and the army of quill pushers who always surrounded a Roman general these days. Occasionally, he saw a harassed-looking consul hurrying towards his litter. The man would nod to him and disappear into the bowels of the city he was trying to run.

  ‘I have my reasons, sir,’ the tribune said.

  ‘What are they?’

  For a while, Vitalis said nothing. He had rehearsed this moment over and over again in his head and nothing sounded right. ‘I am thinking of becoming a Christian,’ he said.

  Theodosius got to his feet and put down the wine goblet he had been sipping from. His eyes narrowed as he closed to Vitalis. ‘I frequent Bishop Dalmatius’ church,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen you there.’

  ‘Not that kind of Christianity,’ Vitalis said.

  ‘What other kind is there?’ Theodosius asked.

  ‘The world is wide,’ Vitalis hedged. He had no intention of mentioning the name of Pelagius, the strange young man he had met and could not now forget. ‘Didn’t Christ tell us to turn the other cheek?’ he asked. ‘To love our neighbours as ourselves?’

  ‘Your point?’ Theodosius arched an eyebrow. A thinking tribune? What was the army coming to?

  ‘I am at present a soldier, sir,’ Vitalis said. ‘Rome pays me to kill. That cannot be right.’

  Theodosius looked at the man, then burst out laughing. ‘I am a soldier too, tribune. And I would think no more about killing an enemy than I would swatting a fly.’ He was suddenly serious. ‘The enemies you kill are the enemies of Christ. Those barbarians are only our neighbours in the sense that we let them live. You have misread the Scriptures.’

  ‘I have never read any Scriptures,’ Vitalis admitted.

  ‘Then keep your mouth shut until you have!’ Theodosius screamed. He grabbed Vitalis’ hand and held up the ring. ‘As long as you wear this,’ he said, ‘you are useful to me and useful to Rome. Will you take it off, throw it to the garbage that infests our market place and watch them kill each other to obtain it?’

  Vitalis looked at the ring. He hated it. He hated the lies it stood for. But four other men still wore theirs and he could not break that bond. ‘No,’ he answered.

  Theodosius stepped back, feeling himself vindicated. ‘Then your resignation request is denied, tribune,’ he said. ‘See yourself out.’

  If the Wall had been cold once the autumn came, the winds that moaned over Din Paladyr were far worse. The sea here churned grey and misty, spray flying over rocks that desperately tried to hold it back and the roar of the surge echoed far inland.

  In the weeks that followed their wedding, Paternus and Brenna had gone north with her people to this ancient hill fort, the largest in the whole of Valentia. Paternus had been made Praefectus Gentium by Maximus, ruling with the queen as Praeses of the area. Most days he kept asking himself how it was that a semisallis of the VIth should have risen so far so quickly. And every day the answer lay on his finger – the Wall ring with its four helmets carved in jet. And most days, too, he would look out from the wind-blown ramparts of the fort to the grim, grey estuary of the [Forth] with the wind chiselling the ridges of the water. To the west Brenna had told him lay the ghosts of the Roman camps that had once been the Antonine Wall, a wall that not even Theodosius and Magnus Maximus could restore, where the spirits of the Wall guardians roamed the heather, seeking peace. The Votadini stayed away from these places and the palisades had long rotted and deer and rabbits cropped the grass.

  To the north lay Caledonia with its terrible, beautiful mountains, a deep purple in summer and lost in the mist by the time Septembris came. There, in the hidden glens and secret valleys, an army may still be hiding and a man called Valentinus, with or without his silver helmet, might yet be biding his time.

  Every day he rode out across the heather, half a turmae of cavalry at his back. He was teaching them, slowly, to abandon their hell-for-leather charges and to ride or march in hand, ready for any eventuality. But the Votadini were a wounded people, scarred by their losses to the barbarians and even more by the desertions of men who they believed were family and friends. Learning would take time.

  Little Taran rode out with him, a special saddle made to keep the boy safe. His feet did not reach the belly of his pony and the pony only came up to Paternus’ chest. While Brenna carried out her duties as queen, dispensing justice and offering prayers to Taranis and Teutates, to the horse goddess Epona and the spirits of the sky, Paternus did his best to train an army.

  That evening, as the sun sank low over the stunted oaks and the taller firs moaned in the wind, Paternus wrapped Brenna’s boy in his furs and stroked his face. The lad had been gabbling about this and that because it had been an exciting day. He had shot his first grouse with a legionary’s dart and he had tussled with the dog to bring it triumphantly back to camp. Then, quite suddenly, he had fallen asleep, just as he had when he was a baby. Paternus looked at him, the shadow of Quin still hovering on the goose-feather pillow.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and Brenna stood there, smiling at them both. ‘Pat,’ she said. ‘There’s something I have to tell you. I am with child.’

  ‘You’ve been avoiding us, tribune,’ Pelagius said, smiling at Vitalis over the steam of the Baths. ‘I’m crushed.’

  There was a time when Vitalis would only use the baths to the north, the one designated for the garrison. Increasingly now he was using the public Baths, where civilians like Pelagius were welcome. Even so, he had not seen Pelagius here before.

  ‘I thought it was time I saw how the other half lived,’ he said, soaking in the hot water and watching the steam swirl into patterns in the half light.

  ‘You don’t approve?’ Vitalis asked.

  ‘What’s not to like?’ Pelagius chuckled. ‘Although I can't see this idea catching on in Hibernia. Tell me, are you still with Mithras?’

  Vitalis looked around him. Half the men there were soldiers. Half of those worshipped the dying bull. The other half were probably Christian; it was hard to tell. ‘I have not left the Temple,’ he said, ‘if that is what you mean.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you in Dalmatius’ church,’ Pelagius said.

  ‘I told you I wouldn’t be back,’ the tribune reminded him.

  ‘Yes, you did,’ Pelagius laughed. ‘And I didn’t believe you.’

  ‘I’m surprised you’re still there,’ Vitalis said.

  ‘You are? Why?’

  The tribune shrugged, sending little ripples of water eddying into the candlelight. ‘With your different views on what the Christ intended. You’re a damned heretic, Pelagius.’

  ‘I may be,’ he said, leaning forward to Vitalis. He suddenly grabbed his hand and pulled it out of the water, looking at the black ring. ‘But I, at least, have free will.’

  ‘With child?’ Julius Longinus was aghast. He got up and crossed the room in what seemed like a single stride, slapping his daughter across the face so that she staggered backwards and collapsed sobbing on the couch.

  ‘O
h, Julius,’ his wife scolded. ‘There’s no need for that.’

  ‘No need for that?’ He looked at Matidia in disbelief. ‘No need for that? What are you thinking about? I’m ruined.’

  ‘Ruined?’ she repeated, throwing a cloth to her weeping daughter but not taking her eyes off her husband. ‘What on earth are you thinking about?’

  ‘May I remind you,’ Longinus stood upright, ‘both of you, that I am Consul here in Londinium? The Count, no less, is my guest … albeit perhaps a rather long-staying guest. People come to me with their problems. I dispense the law, I arbitrate, I run the Ordo, I …’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Matidia was almost yawning. ‘We know what you do for a living.’ Then she flashed a scowl at him. ‘And what you do in your spare time.’

  He ignored her. ‘That a daughter of mine … I shudder to think what Dalmatius will say about this.’

  ‘Dalmatius?’ his wife frowned. ‘What has that pederast got to do with it?’

  ‘Pederast?’ Longinus repeated. ‘No, no. The Bishop is simply celibate. He is married to his church. There’s nothing odd about Dalmatius, I assure you. Anyway, you’re changing the subject.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she insisted. ‘You brought the degenerate into it.’

  ‘Merely because as a Christian he does not approve of bedroom hanky-panky before marriage.’

  ‘Or after it, it would seem.’

  The two had worn themselves out following their usual argument as soon as Dalmatius’ name came into it and the only sound in the consul’s quarters was the steady sob from their daughter.

  ‘Shut up, Julia!’ they chorused, briefly united.

  ‘Well?’ Longinus turned on the girl. ‘Who is it? Lentulus Marcellus? Proclivius Parbo?’

  ‘For Jupiter’s sake, Julius,’ Matidia shrieked. ‘They’re your cronies. No girl who wasn’t getting paid would be seen dead with them. Tell him, child.’

  Julia sat up, sniffing, her eyes red and puffy, her cheek still stinging from her father’s slap. ‘Leocadius Honorius,’ she almost whispered.

  ‘The tribune?’ Longinus’ eyebrows almost disappeared under his hair. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Oh, come now, Julius,’ his wife stepped in again. ‘He is rather good looking, in a plebeian sort of way. And he’s ambitious. And he’s a hero of the Wall.’ She ran through in her mind all the old reprobates who were her husband’s friends and counted her daughter lucky.

  Longinus dithered, glaring at the two women who were clearly bent on making his life hell. Then he pulled himself up to his full consularly stature and said to the girl, ‘Well, you’ll have to marry him, Julia. But you’ll do it without my blessing and you can't live here. Neither will I have you living in his quarters, like some bloody camp follower. I expect I can find you a small villa on the edge of town somewhere.’

  ‘Oh, papa!’ Julia’s face broke into a smile.

  ‘Three slaves and that’s it. Matidia – you’ll have to make all the arrangements, with Honorius, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Julius,’ she snorted. ‘Since when was a Roman woman allowed to conduct marriage contracts? Get a message to the man. Tell him you want to see him face to face. It wouldn’t hurt to put the fear of the gods into him.’

  Count Theodosius sent a message by fast ship to the north. He himself had received an urgent summons from the Emperor. There was trouble in Gaul and now that all seemed quiet in Britannia, could the Theodosii come east? Legions were available; there was no need to abandon the western islands. Why not put Maximus in charge? He was a good man and loyal to his Emperor.

  ‘So Papa Theo’s going home. I’m going to miss the old boy,’ Maximus was reading the Count’s letter and fondling the battered ear of his dog. ‘We won't miss the younger one, will we, Bruno, eh?’ He sighed and looked out of the Principia to the deserted parade ground of the VI. ‘Dux Britannorum, eh? Well, well, well …’

  Somewhere in the cold of northern Iberia, a white-haired old lady would be very proud of her boy.

  ‘Will you go south, sir?’ Justinus asked. ‘To Londinium?’

  ‘No, not yet. The forts are all but finished up here, it’s true, but the Count seems to have had little trouble in the south. I’d just like to stay up here a while longer. Then we’ll see.’

  There had never been a farewell like it. The Heruli and the Batavi marched out of the gates of Londinium, over the bridge they had kept so well and made their way east. The cornicines blasted, the drums thundered and the cohorts let rip with the old songs again, songs that died away with their marching boots.

  There had been speeches and banquets and the crowds had lined the streets, throwing flowers and trinkets, girls running alongside the soldiers and kissing them for all the world as if they would never see them again. In fact, they were marching to Rutupiae and all of them, except a handful to provide an escort for the Theodosii, were coming back again.

  The night before, the Count had said his farewells to Julius Longinus and his perfectly ghastly wife and that sweet daughter of theirs who seemed to have put on some weight. The consul was a happy man once again; happy that is for one who was about to have Leocadius Honorius for a son-in-law. He was about to get his palace back, all of it, and he could stretch and preen and fart to his heart’s content. That German fellow … what was his name? Stephanus? He was in charge of the legions until General Maximus came south. And Stephanus was such a boring bloody soldier, he would stay in the camp to the west. From what Longinus knew of him, the idea of fountains and feather beds and hot and cold running slaves in every room filled him with dread. Longinus had shaken his head. If he wasn’t mixing his races too much, these Germanii were so bloody Spartan!

  Leocadius unbuckled his helmet once the ceremonies were over. From the Count’s new towers, he watched the man’s entourage shrink into the distance, until only the scarlet vexillum was visible as a tiny dot of red, like a ladybird in a cornfield.

  He wrapped his arm around Honoria, the woman who was carrying his child and kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘Paulinus will be a happy man today,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’ Leocadius asked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, with the Theodosii gone, he can hold those bloody Games he keeps going on about. Hasn’t he mentioned them to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Leocadius said. ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘Leo,’ she looked up at him, her eyes serious for a moment. 'Don't get involved with any of that, will you?’

  ‘The Games?’ he laughed. ‘What, because they’re illegal?’

  ‘No.’ She wasn’t laughing. ‘Because the Games are all about death. And death is Paulinus’ stock in trade.’

  He fondled her breasts briefly before the patrolling guard swung back towards them. ‘See you tonight,’ he whispered, ‘usual place.’

  ‘Right, Gillo,’ Paulinus Hupo sprawled in the atrium of his town house, the one north of the river. ‘Take this note to the consul, will you? Tell him it’s time we talked Games. Tell him there’s a fat little backhander in it for him once he has officially appointed me Aedile. And Gillo,’ the man paused in the doorway. ‘Dress up, there’s a good lad. And be polite. The Longini are quality, after all.’

  He downed his wine and straightened his robes. It was time he found Honoria, the woman who was carrying his child.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Now that the Arcani had gone, melted into the snows of Valentia which lay thick on the land, Magnus Maximus had had to increase his patrols north of the Wall. Rutilius’ engineers had worked miracles to rebuild the forts, but the outlying fortlets like Banna would have to wait for another spring.

  Justinus’ patrol that day was routine like any other. He rode at the head of two turmae, wearing their fur caps now that the Pax Romana had been restored. Their helmets they carried strapped to their saddlebows and their shields hung there too. Flurries of snow were powdering their cloaks and the breath of men and horses snaked out on the frozen air. He had no signifer with him because this was
simply a reconnoitring expedition. The last thing Justinus Coelius expected was trouble. Yet there it was, at the river in front of him. Cavalry.

  He halted the column and the men huddled closer for warmth. The river itself was still free of ice but everyone knew how cold that water would be. Just wading through it up to the horses’ knees could take its toll. Justinus checked the horizon. Nothing. No sign of other units. No one lurking in the forests ready to spring an ambush. Just a handful of cavalrymen letting their horses drink.

  He called his decurion to him. ‘What do you make of them, Labienus?’

  ‘They’re ours, sir,’ the young man said after a few minutes squinting against the glare of the snow.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Justinus nodded. ‘But what the hell are they doing there?’

  ‘Shall I find out, sir?’ the keen young man asked. Justinus looked at him. He was not that much younger than the tribune but he had come with the Jovii from Gaul and had never seen the Wall until a few weeks ago. And the Wall was covered in the blood of men like Labianus.

  ‘No,’ Justinus said. ‘We all will. Skirmish order.’ The command was not shouted and the trumpeter kept his cornicen strapped across his body. The Ala Jovii drew their swords as one, but slowly, as though they were advancing on a doe by a water hole and were anxious not to surprise her.

  It took a few moments, but the disoriented riders at the water’s edge seemed to panic when the lines of the Jovii trotted forward out of the mist. Their hooves padded softly on the snow and it was only the whinny and snort that gave the advance away.

  ‘Io, circitor!’ Justinus shouted to the shaven-headed man trying to calm his bay. The man snapped something to the men nearest to him and they all came to attention. Those who had already mounted, sprang down again from the saddle and stood to their horses.

  ‘Who are you?’ Justinus asked as his horse’s hooves splashed through the shallows on his side of the river.

  ‘Second Augusta, sir,’ the circitor said, smiling. ‘We’re a bit lost, I’m afraid.’