Britannia: Part I: The Wall

by Richard Denham

  ‘Second Augusta?’ the tribune replied. ‘Lost indeed. I thought your men were based in the south west - Isca Dumnoniorum?’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ the circitor called back. ‘We got cut off with Count Nectaridus. Butchered, he was, with most of his command.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  The circitor turned to the man next to him. ‘Oh, now you’ve asked me, sir,’ he grinned. ‘I don’t rightly know.’

  Justinus looked harder at the man in front of him. All vestige of uniform had gone from this unit now and they were wrapped in rabbit and squirrel fur. Here and there a Pictish axe gleamed at a saddlebow.

  ‘Trophies of war?’ Justinus asked.

  The circitor followed the tribune’s gaze. ‘Oh, them. Well, you know how it is, sir. You pick up what you can.’

  ‘Indeed you do,’ Justinus’ smile was as icy as the ground. ‘Especially when you’re four hundred and fifty miles from home, give or take a yard and you can’t remember where the Count of the Saxon Shore was butchered, when you were, I presume, standing alongside him.’

  ‘I …’ the circitor was fast running out of ideas.

  ‘Especially when some of the things you picked up are the horses of the VI Victrix from Vinovia. I’d know that brand anywhere.’

  The circitor squinted at the tribune’s face under his fur cap. ‘Justinus Coelius? Is that you?’

  ‘It is, Malo. And don’t feel badly about it. I didn’t recognize you, either.’

  Malo licked his lips, cracked and salty in the cold. ‘I heard you’d been promoted,’ he said. ‘You’re a tribune now, eh?’

  Justinus nodded coldly. ‘And you’re a damned deserter,’ he growled.

  All hell broke loose. A dart hissed from behind a shield to thud into the prong of Justinus’ saddle and his horse shied to the right, caracoling back from the water’s edge.

  ‘Horse archers!’ he heard the decurion yell on the slope behind him and the shafts hissed over his head to thump into the milling mass of men and horses on the far bank.

  Justinus knew he had to hurry. He had caught the deserters unprepared, in open country, but once they were mounted, it might take him all day to hunt them down and night was never far away at this time of the year. ‘Turmae,’ he bellowed. ‘Charge!’

  There was no time for the parade ground niceties, the formal walk, march, trot of General Maximus’ handbooks. Justinus whipped free his sword and steadied his nervy animal until the front rank were crashing at the gallop through the shallows. Then he rammed his heels home and charged with them. Helmets still dangled uselessly from harness, shields stayed where they were. The cavalry were just swordsmen now, hacking and scything at the men trying to mount. The horse archers could not fire for fear of hitting their own men.

  It was all over in minutes, the deserters showing their colours again and throwing their weapons away. If Justinus had had the VIth with him, he knew that that would be their last action, but the Jovii had lost no-one on the Wall and Mars Ultor did not ride with them that day. One horseman, however, had mounted and was making a break to the north-east, his body low over his horse’s back to make himself less of a target.

  Justinus had reined his own mount in and he yelled up the slope, ‘Semisallis Porsena?’

  ‘Sir?’ the horse archer urged his horse forward.

  ‘See that rider galloping to your right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘See if you can hit a horse’s arse at sixty paces.’

  It was a long shot; there was no doubt of that, but if any man in the turmae could do it, it was Octavius Porsena. He gripped his animal’s barrel with his thighs and drew the bowstring back to his lips, kissing it briefly before the shaft sang on the air. There was a whinny of agony as the galloping horse staggered a few paces, then went down, screaming and kicking as the arrow point inflamed every nerve in its body.

  Justinus was impressed, but he would never let Porsena know that. He kicked his horse forward, out of the river, icy water pouring down from his boots and the sodden fringes of his cloak. The deserter had fought his way from under the wriggling, shrieking animal and was dashing across the snow, but the drifts were too deep and he stumbled. Justinus wheeled his horse in front of him, then swung the animal round as the deserter tried to double back. Whichever way he floundered, he was facing a tribune of the VI. He was facing a hero of the Wall.

  At last, exhausted and his lungs in agony, he stood still, his sword still in his right hand, his left clutching his side in pain. Then he straightened. Whatever fight the others had shown initially had left them and they were being rounded up and herded up the hillside, dragging their stolen horses with them. A body, weeping blood in the weeds, floated downstream. The deserter threw his sword into the snow where it all but disappeared.

  ‘Go on, Artabanus,’ Justinus said, grim-faced, ‘Pick the sword up again. Give me a reason to kill you.’ Two of the Jovii had reached the fugitive arcanus and dragged him away. Justinus swung out of the saddle and picked up the sword. It was a Saxon weapon, heavy but sharp along one side. Civilized men did not fight with anything like that. But as he looked at it, reflecting the glow of the snow in the metal, he wondered how many Romans had gone down before it and whether it had flicked out the eyes of Fullofaudes as a choice morsel for the Attacotti.

  ‘None of those bastards rides!’ Justinus shouted. ‘Tie them to your horses’ tails. We’ll make them eat snow all the way back to Aesica. Decurion?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You will have the pleasure of returning these horses to Vinovia. Take five men. I expect them there by tomorrow night.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ He was even beginning to sound like Magnus Maximus.

  The garden of the consul’s palace had never looked so beautiful, smelled so aromatically of the afternoon’s burning leaves, been so loud with the song of autumn’s last nightingale. Julius Longinus leaned back against the wall in his favourite quiet corner and breathed in, knowing that the air he breathed was his again, now that the Theodosii had really gone. If it hadn’t been for this other business, he could be quite happy, he thought. His wife all a-twitter at the impending grandchild, a nice warm woman waiting for him in his chamber in the basilica, a goblet of wine by her side.

  ‘Papa?’ His daughter’s voice broke into his thought. ‘He’s here somewhere,’ he heard her say.

  He pushed on his knees and stood up, emerging from his hiding place. ‘Is it time?’

  ‘The priest is here, Papa,’ she said.

  Ah, yes, the priest. But which one? Matidia had insisted on a sacerdos of Minerva as well as Dalmatius’ church. She had taken to paying great attention to signs and portents as Julia’s belly grew and she was making sure she offended no one, god or man.

  He extended his arm and Julia nestled beneath it, just as she had when she was a little girl. He kissed the top of her head. Suddenly, foreboding swept through him like a wave of ice. ‘Julia,’ he said, quietly, ‘are you sure …?’

  ‘Papa,’ she said, turning her head. ‘Leocadius is a tribune. He is an important man. A hero of the Wall.’ It took a very important man to impress the consul.

  ‘Does he love you? Do you love him?’

  For reply, she swept her hand over her swollen belly, smoothing the gown around it. It was a little late for love, now. The priests were here, the Christian and the pagan, eyeing each other suspiciously. The few guests gathered closely, trying to make light of an awkward situation. It was time to step up and marry this man she hardly knew, the profile against the dim window in the dark of her room, the urgent hands pressing her against the bed. She shivered and stepped forward.

  Leocadius stood back in the doorway to the garden, looking at the little group assembled under the lanterns under the trees. He had always known this day would come, that he would marry, but he had always thought it would be another day. A far future day. And, though no romantic, he had assumed he would love his wife. He wondered as he stood there whether he ev
en liked this girl. He turned to Vitalis, standing at his shoulder and tried a smile.

  ‘Well, Vit,’ he said, his voice coming out more huskily than he intended. ‘Let’s do this thing, eh? We are heroes of the Wall. Surely I can get married without my knees knocking.’

  Vitalis didn’t smile back. He too had always known that Leo would be caught one day although he had always expected that it would be by the knife point of an angry husband. Marriage to the consul’s daughter seemed to be too good for him, in his opinion. The priest from Dalmatius’ church was looking over the bride’s head into the darkness and catching the gleam of Leocadius’ lorica gestured impatiently and the two men walked forward to join the others.

  Matidia, baulked of the full wedding ceremony by Longinus’ political necessity of placating the Christians, had nevertheless made sure that Julia wore the flame coloured veil, the very one she herself had worn at her wedding to Julius and which she had kept in her cedar chest ever since, waiting for this day. She stood on the edge of the little group and cried with regret for all the preparations she had made so many times in her head and which would now never be real. The gown, specially woven, the girdle, the knotted cords, all the days spent with Julia planning her special day. And what had it come to, in the end? This hole in corner ceremony with a Christian priest mumbling his rites, annoyed because he was not in a proper church; the priest of Minerva in his bronze crown consigned to a corner, taking no part. She cried for the loss of her special day and for the loss of her daughter, but mostly, she cried for herself.

  The Christian priest felt no more comfortable about this ceremony than did Matidia. He knew these people were not Christians, they just wanted to do what was expedient. This woman was clearly with child, the man was clearly impatient to be elsewhere and the soldier standing at the groom’s shoulder looked as though he were carved from stone. He gabbled through the vows, scarcely giving them time to repeat them, clasped their hands, proclaimed them man and wife and stepped gratefully aside. He knew what to expect later – a sermon from Dalmatius on why he had not been called on to officiate. Pausing only to grab his fee from Julius, he was gone.

  Vitalis looked at Leocadius, standing there, still holding Julia’s hand. He hadn’t kissed her, had hardly looked at her. Vitalis’ heart turned over in his chest with sorrow for them, two people bound together for life for what? A few nights of grunting and rolling on a bed. He agreed with Pelagius about original sin, but there were lots of sins a man could do later and Leocadius had a list as long as his arm. He couldn’t wish him well, the words would stick in his throat, so he melted away into the shadows and was on the heels of the priest as they hurried through the palace to the world outside.

  Matidia wiped her eyes on the corner of her gown and stepped forward. Julius was standing there like an idiot, seemingly lost for words. Although there would be no maidenhead taken tonight, there were things which must be done and so she nudged the two women she had coerced into attending and, with a reasonable facsimile of merriment and rejoicing, they took Leo and Julia by the arms and led them through the palace to the bridal chamber. Matidia had spent a great deal of Julius’ money on the room and it did look quite incredible, hung with fragrant boughs and with an enormous, silk-swathed bed in the centre, pulled out from the wall to be the centrepiece of the room.

  Leocadius tried to step through the door, but was prevented by the women, who led Julia in and closed the door in his face. ‘Stay there,’ Matidia snarled to him, opening the door a crack. ‘We must prepare your bride.’

  Inside the room, the women removed Julia’s jewellery and clothes and wiped her body with sweet oils. They tactfully avoided looking at her belly, tight and round in the candlelight. They put her in the bed and plumped the pillows behind her. Then, Matidia blew out all the candles but one and tiptoed from the room. Julia lay there like a sacrifice. She felt more nervous about this night than the one when she had given her virginity to Leocadius. She stifled a sob, tweaked the covers across her breasts and waited.

  Outside the door, Matidia leaned up so her face was as close to Leocadius’ as she could make it. ‘Your bride is waiting for you,’ she hissed. ‘Your consummation is at hand.’ Leocadius’ eyes widened. This woman was really taking this too far. He opened his mouth to speak but she clamped her hand over it. ‘You will go in there and take my daughter, do you understand me?’ she said. ‘In case you don’t know what to do, I have arranged for a musician to sing dirty songs outside your door all night. Because I know it can be hard for a man when he has to persuade a virgin to give herself to him.’ She leaned in further and he caught a gust of wine on her breath. ‘Do you understand me, Leocadius?’ She reached down and caught hold of his balls and gave them a squeeze. ‘Do you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Good. Here comes the musician. I’ll see you both in the morning. And my daughter had better be smiling.’ She let go of his face and turned away down the corridor. She passed a lute player coming the other way. He gave Leocadius an embarrassed grin and struck a chord.

  Leocadius opened the door of the bedroom and looked in. He closed the door softly behind him and walked up to the bed. Julia lay there silently, following him with eyes grown big in the shadows of the flickering candle. He reached out with one hand and drew the covers back from her breasts, tracing down and circling one nipple, grown dark as the child grew inside her. He traced further, pushing the covers ever lower and she tensed, clenching her fists by her side and arching her back to meet his questing touch. He brushed his palm down over her tight skin and cupped it between her legs. She gave a groan and closed her eyes. The pressure of the hand left her and she waited, waited for the weight of him to press her into the mattress, as he had not done for so many weeks. But she waited in vain. With a swish of his scarlet cloak and the soft thud of a closing door, Leocadius was gone.

  The torches on the walls threw weird reflections at Aesica that night. Artabanus stood shivering in the gatehouse, listening to the calls from the watch outside. From where he stood, wrists still bound from being dragged behind a horse, he could see flurries of snow whirling down through the night. He had lost all feeling in his fingers and toes and his legs felt like lead.

  ‘Tribune!’ a guard shouted and everyone except the arcanus clicked to attention. Justinus marched in, still in his mail from the day’s raid, but bareheaded now. He sat down on the campaign chair and waited while an orderly filled his cup with wine. He took a sip, then got up and offered it to Artabanus. At first, the man did not move, except to turn his head. Then he thought better of it and gulped the wine greedily. It was the first liquid to pass his lips all day.

  Justinus jerked the cup away from him and sat down again.

  ‘How long had you been in Eboracum, sending your messages out of the city?’

  Artabanus looked blank, ‘I have never been to Eboracum in my life,’ he said.

  ‘Very well,’ Justinus changed tack. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘about the mouth of hell.’

  ‘What’s to tell?’ Artabanus shrugged.

  Justinus was across the room in one bound and slapped the man across the face, the Wall ring drawing blood from his lip. ‘The truth, you bastard!’ he growled.

  Artabanus’ head was ringing and he knew that, in terms of pain, this was just the start of it. His shoulders hunched and all he wanted to do now was to get this over with.

  ‘I had my instructions,’ he said. ‘I was to take Fullofaudes to the mouth of hell because it was a perfect place for an ambush. He had no idea. He thought he could beat us with a handful of cavalry. I was too far away to see the look on his face when he realised exactly what he was up against.’

  ‘What was he up against?’

  ‘Picts. Attacotti, Saxons, Scots. We were all there. In our hundred then.’ He lifted his head defiantly. ‘In our thousands now.’

  Justinus rested his elbows on the carved arms of the chair. ‘Tell me about Valentinus,’ he said.

  Artabanus hesitated. �
�He’s going to kill you all,’ he said.

  ‘Is he?’ Justinus asked. ‘When and how is he going to do that, precisely?’

  Artabanus’ throat was still choked from his hours being dragged across the frozen moorland and his laugh was a hoarse cackle. ‘You’ll know it when it happens,’ he said. ‘Just like Fullofaudes did.’

  ‘They say Valentinus is ten feet tall,’ the tribune said. ‘Rides a black horse from hell and wears this terrible helmet.’

  Artabanus chuckled again. ‘He has many horses,’ he said, ‘and helmets too. As for his height …’

  Justinus smiled and shook his head. ‘Come on, Artabanus, time to stop this charade now. We both know he’s dead, don’t we? That’s why you’re with that pack of renegades outside. You’ve lost. You’re broken up into little war bands and I’m going to swat you like flies.’

  Artabanus was not smiling. ‘He’s not dead, tribune,’ he said. ‘He’s biding his time. You’ll see. Come the spring.’

  Justinus was on his feet again, crossing to the bound man. ‘What will I see, arcanus?’ he asked.

  ‘He will come out of Valentia like the end of the world,’ he said, his eyes bright with the thought of it. ‘And death shall follow him.’

  ‘Yes,’ Justinus said solemnly. ‘It will.’ His left hand came up hard and fast, driving his dagger into Artabanus’ stomach. The man gasped and doubled up, his bound hands twitching as he tried to remove the blade. Justinus did that for him, twisting it and pulling it free. As Artabanus’ head slumped onto his shoulder, he whispered in his ear, ‘Your big mistake,’ he said, ‘was going to a wedding.’

  He stepped back and let the man fall, his blood oozing onto the gatehouse floor. ‘Circitor,’ he said. ‘Get rid of that. And tomorrow I want the others hanged.’

  ‘All of them, sir?’ the circitor frowned.

  ‘All of them.’

  The sweat stood out on Brenna’s brow and a rivulet ran down the side of her face, trickling coldly into her hair. Nevertheless, she pushed away the well-meaning hand that went to mop her cheek.