Britannia: Part I: The Wall

by Richard Denham

  ‘Will you stop fretting?’ she said, through clenched teeth. ‘It’s sweat, that’s all. I don’t need you to mop my sweat, you’re here to get this baby born. Why won't the baby be born?’ The last word was a howl that echoed through the open door and into the night. Paternus and Taran, sitting on the far side of the flickering fire, looked at each other and as quickly looked away. They both had things to think about. The last time Paternus had caused a woman to scream like that, his Flavia had presented him with Quin. Taran, as the last person to make his mother scream like that, had more complicated thoughts and they weren’t for sharing with Paternus. Nevertheless, in the dancing shadows of the fire, the boy’s hand sought the man’s and both felt comforted.

  The knee-women who were there to help the queen give birth to the Roman’s son looked at each other across her head. She had spurned many of the birthing rituals of her people, in deference to the baby’s father, but they had insisted on the undoing of knots in her clothes, on the open door which was a mercy anyway in the heat of summer. She had been like this now since midday and there was not even a full moon to help the baby out. They had tried her sitting, lying, walking around. Rituals or no rituals, the elder of the two had hidden a stone axe under the queen’s bed. It had been good enough for her and for her mother, it was good enough for any queen alive.

  Brenna screamed again, throwing her head back so that the sinews stood out on her neck. She had her hands on her knees and she pushed down, the muscles on her arms bunching with the effort, her fingers claws digging into her own flesh.

  Paternus took Taran by the elbow and raised him to his feet. ‘Let’s go for a walk, boy,’ he said. ‘This is women’s work.’

  Taran nodded silently and the two walked out of the compound towards the high ground, so they could fill their ears with the scream of gulls and the wind off the distant sea.

  ‘Is my husband outside?’ Brenna panted.

  One of the women leaned across so she could see out of the door.

  ‘No, lady. He and your son have gone.’

  ‘Good,’ Brenna choked out a laugh. ‘If they have gone, I can scream.’ She looked from one stricken face to another and gave another hoarse chuckle. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I can scream louder than that.’ And she bent forward, one of the midwives at each shoulder and she pressed down on the ground on either side of her hips. The scream this time could tear skin and as it receded, leaving the women with ringing ears, she took a deep breath and with it, her son slid into the world, in a rush of water and blood.

  ‘There,’ she said, falling back on the bed. ‘A boy. We will call him Edirne.’

  One of the women scooped up the child and was about to give him a quickening slap when he opened his mouth and yelled. The other picked up twine and a knife and with deft hands tied and cut the cord. Brenna held out her arms and another prince of the Votadini was put to her breast.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Aestivus

  Magnus Maximus went south that summer, leaving his northern command to his one remaining hero of the Wall. The winds were with him in the German sea and his little flotilla saw no Saxon sails at all, just the odd fishing coracle off the coast and one or two swan-necked merchant ships making for their havens along the mouth of the Witham.

  He had sent messengers ahead to Stephanus the German to meet him at the broad estuary of the Thamesis where the marshes stretched forever before the forests began. The general travelled light, with a single cohort of troops, his staff and his dog. For months now he had received regular messages from Londinium; all of Maxima Caesariensis seemed to be quiet and travellers coming into the city spoke of no trouble on the roads. But Magnus Maximus did not know this part of Britannia and he needed to see it for himself.

  It was a stifling night it the city, the shutters of the day having made no difference in the narrow streets. Most of the tabernae had closed now and the alleyways that never slept became broad thoroughfares for the rats. In the governor’s palace, Matidia slept the sleep of the dead, snoring gently through the night. But in his quarters in the basilica, her husband was still awake, the candle burning soft and slow beside him as he peered to read the small print of the parchments before him. God and Jupiter highest and best, who would be a consul?

  He had heard earlier in the day that General Magnus Maximus was on his way to the city. More clash and carry. More military mouths to feed. What would this one do? Put up another bloody wall? There was no hope of paying for the last one. And then, there was his beloved palace. He had heard that this Maximus was an oaf, with the eating habits of a pig. At least the Theodosii were gentlemen and had left Longinus’ statuary alone. He shuddered to think what this one might do.

  The candle fluttered and a breeze lifted one of the pieces of parchment on his table. ‘I said “no disturbances”, Albinus,’ the consul said, without looking up.

  ‘If you’d rather I went away,’ a soft, melodic voice wafted from the shadows behind the curtain.

  Longinus put down the quill. ‘Who is it?’ he asked in his official consular voice. ‘Who’s there?’

  She undulated into the light, her golden hair tumbling over her cloak. ‘Honoria,’ she said, smiling. ‘You can call me Honoria.’

  Longinus’ smile turned into a chuckle. ‘My dear,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I shall be delighted to call you anything you like.’

  He looked her up and down. Lovely. Half a grain sack lighter than his wife, but curving in all the right places, not like the last one Hupo had sent him. The girl had gone like a wild ass, but had the statistics of a hop-pole. He took her hand and led her to the couch at the far side of the room, lovingly unbuckling her gold brooch and removing her cloak. ‘Sit here,’ he said, ‘beside me.’

  ‘I am disturbing your work,’ she looked at the clutter of papers on the table.

  ‘Oh, that …’ Longinus poured them both a goblet of wine. It was only his second-best stuff but this girl, for all her fine cheekbones and expensive jewellery, was not likely to notice. ‘Affairs of the day,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I much prefer affairs of the night.’

  ‘You naughty man!’ she tapped his shoulder with her dangling sleeve.

  ‘Did Hupo send you?’ he asked.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ she said.

  ‘Er … a bite to eat, perhaps?’ he said, remembering his manners. No need to rush things; he was going to savour this one. ‘Where’s that slave?’ He was on his feet, but Honoria held his arm.

  ‘We don’t need him,’ she said. ‘And anyway, I’m not hungry. Not for food, anyway …’

  She let him take her hand and he kissed it. Then he placed a finger in his mouth and sucked it, keeping his eyes on her all the time. Her other had roved down to his lap and his hardness reared up. ‘Oh,’ she purred. ‘So it’s true.’

  ‘What is, my dear?’ He was now sniffing and licking her nexk under the glorious cascade of her hair.

  ‘What they whisper about you in my part of the city.’

  ‘Do they?’ Longinus was gratified. ‘What part of the city is that?’

  ‘Any part where you are, Julius .. I may call you Julius?’

  ‘My dear,’ he said, sliding his hand inside her robe to fondle her breasts. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. Shall we?’ He used his free hand to indicate a curtain across an archway behind him and he helped her up. He couldn’t help noticing his shadow on the wall, erection and all and felt a surge of pride. So, they were talking about this in the city, eh? Well, it was hardly surprising.

  He led her into a bedroom which was in total darkness.

  ‘I’ll get a candle,’ he said.

  ‘No, no,’ she stopped him. ‘I like it in the dark.’

  ‘Do you?’ he murmured. She was already pulling his pallium over his head. She threw it to one side and stroked her long nails down his chest. Then she reached up and kissed him.

  ‘Naked, though, surely?’ he said.

  ‘Is there any other way?’ She undid
the ties of her robe and let it fall. He could see almost nothing in the darkness but he felt the weight of her breasts and fondled her nipples before sliding his hand down over the curve of her hips. She pushed him gently backwards so that his legs hit the bed and he fell back. Then she felt for his manhood and rubbed it gently, getting faster and faster until the consul was squirming on the bed.

  ‘Straddle me,’ he gasped. ‘I’m nearly there.’

  She lowered her head to his and murmured, ‘So am I.’

  The next thing Longinus felt was an excruciating pain in his chest. A thud. Followed by a second. What sort of love-making was this? Hupo had sent him some very imaginative girls over the years, but none who … He could still see nothing, but he felt something warm and wet trickling over his chest and down both sides onto the sheets. He heard a sucking sound and felt the pain again. He could not breathe. There was the most terrible agony in his lungs and he could not feel his fingers. He tried to move but he could not. He tried to speak but could make no sound. He was vaguely aware of the girl moving away from him, standing up; he heard the rustle of clothes as she was dressing again.

  Then, Julius Longinus did what every consul must do one day. He died.

  Honoria swept up the curtain and wiped the broad blade of her dagger on it. She finished her wine on the way out and made for the stairs. The slave Albinus met her halfway up. She looked at him and slid the dagger away into its hiding place. Then she pressed a small heavy bag into his hand. ‘As agreed,’ she said. ‘Our bargain.’

  ‘Our bargain,’ Albinus bowed and went on up the stairs. He took the candle and pulled aside the curtain. Justinus Longinus lay on his back, stark naked. There was blood all over his chest, oozing from three wounds. His eyes and mouth were open as if something had surprised him. Albinus slapped the still-warm corpse across the face. ‘You’ve had this coming for years,’ he whispered, ‘you hypocritical old bastard.’

  ‘Dead?’ Paulinus Hupo could not believe his ears. ‘Gillo, are you sure about this?’

  The man shrugged. ‘It’s the talk of the forum,’ he said.

  ‘What was it?’ Hupo asked. ‘Apoplexy?’

  ‘Knife.’

  ‘Really?’ Hupo was intrigued. He quickly ran through in his head the names and faces of men who would have wished the consul dead. The problem was that it was rather a long list and his own name was at the head of it. ‘Well, well,’ he was pacing his chamber, vaguely aware of the lute playing in the corner. ‘This is good news.’ A sudden thought struck him. ‘He was always going to be a stumbling block to the Games. But with him already halfway across the Styx … Gillo, get a message to the barracks. I’ve got a strange feeling that our friend Leocadius knows all about the sad demise of his father-in-law … he’s probably still cleaning his dagger. Tell him the Games are on.’

  ‘Dead?’ Leocadius blinked. ‘Jupiter Highest and Best.’ He quickly wrapped the sobbing Julia to him at their villa beyond the east wall and kissed the little one on the head. Try as he might – and it had to be said the tribune did not try very hard – he could not warm to the little, wriggling thing. She had her father’s eyes, except they were blue and what might develop into her father’s nose. That said, she had her mother’s demanding whine, and that far outweighed the rest.

  He left his young family weeping with the three slaves Longinus had allowed him, as well as four of his own and rode west, the guards at the gate hauling the timbers open for him. He clattered into the courtyard of the basilica and dashed up the consul’s back stairs.

  ‘Albinus,’ he met the slave on the landing. ‘What price this? What do you know about it?’

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ the slave assured him. ‘It was my night off.’

  Leocadius barged past him and into the room where the ex-consul of Maxima Caesariensis lay half in his winding sheet, his wounds dressed and stitched, the blood washed away. The tribune took one look at the punctured chest and murmured, ‘Hupo.’

  It was three days later that Magnus Maximus reached Londinium. Unlike the Theodosii, he approached from north of the Thamesis and he brought no army with him other than his single cohort and the escort provided by Stephanus the German.

  ‘This place is like a morgue,’ he said to the two heroes of the Wall who stood before him. ‘I didn’t expect a triumph but a few smiles wouldn’t have come amiss.’

  ‘It’s the consul, sir,’ Leocadius told him, standing to attention with his plumed helmet in the crook of his arm. ‘Julius Longinus; he’s dead.’

  ‘Murdered,’ Vitalis added. He had had no love for the consul but the man’s murder was something else. In this city on the edge of pandemonium, every faction would be bound to blame every other. There would be blood.

  Maximus looked at his tribunes. Rumours had already reached him long before he left the north. Leocadius had married the consul’s daughter and was rising in the world. On the other hand, he was rarely at his post and found the office of tribune a little arduous these days. And Vitalis … well, Vitalis was lost. He had tried to resign. And, to Maximus, a man who resigned from the army might as well resign from life.

  ‘Who’s running the place in the meantime?’ the general asked.

  ‘Er … the Ordo, sir,’ Leocadius told him.

  ‘The Ordo!’ Maximus slammed down his goblet. ‘You can't run a city by committee,’ he thundered. ‘Shuffling old bastards lining their own purses and bickering over the cost of a whore. Leocadius. You’re it.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The new consul of Maxima Caesariensis. It’s you.’

  For a moment, Leocadius stood rooted to the spot. ‘Sir, I know nothing about politics.’

  ‘And you knew nothing about the army until you joined. Trust me, lad, it’s like falling off a log. You’ll have a garrison to back you and me and my legions for as long as we’re here. And don’t worry about me getting under your feet. I shall be Stephanus’ guest at the camp outside the walls. You’ll have the governor’s palace to yourself.’

  ‘Well,’ Vitalis murmured under his breath, ‘You and the mother-in-law.’

  Leocadius shook his head.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Maximus asked him.

  ‘Sir,’ the tribune had been storing this up for some time and now it all came tumbling out. ‘May I speak freely?’

  The general spread his arms.

  ‘I’m a pedes,’ Leocadius said. ‘A stupid child who was tired of foot-slogging with the army. I wanted to leave, drop my shield and get the hell out. Then …’

  ‘Then the Wall,’ Maximus said.

  ‘We didn’t fight anybody,’ Leocadius shouted and the silence that followed stunned everybody. The man was calmer now. The little devils that had haunted his nights for all these months had at last fallen silent and he felt a huge weight lifted from him. ‘We ran,’ he said quietly. ‘Vitalis was there. He’ll tell you.’

  Maximus looked at the man.

  ‘It’s true,’ Vitalis nodded. ‘All we found at Banna and Camboglanna were corpses. We ran south to Eboracum dodging barbarian patrols.’

  ‘So the whole thing is a lie!’ Leocadius shouted. ‘Heroes of the bloody Wall!’ He tore off the black ring chiselled with its four helmets and ripped his knuckle before throwing it across the room. He looked at Vitalis. ‘For the last four years we have been living a lie.’

  Maximus turned and crossed the room. He picked up the ring where it had bounced off the wall and looked at it. The light caught its facets and the gold that gripped them. He reached out and took Leocadius’ hand and slipped the ring back on the bleeding finger. ‘I know,’ he said softly.

  The tribunes looked at each other. ‘You know?’ It was Vitalis who found his voice first.

  ‘Of course I know,’ the general said, turning away to pour more wine. ‘Just as the Count knew and praeses Decius Ammianus before him.’

  The silence was palpable.

  ‘You arrogant bastards,’ Maximus grated. ‘This isn’t about you, either of you. And it’s no
t about Justinus or Paternus either. Haven’t you got it yet? It’s about Rome and what is best for her. It will always be about Rome. And whether you’re a foot-slogging pedes, or a consul of a province …’ he smiled to himself, ‘or the Dux Britannorum, we just do our duty by her. And that’s all.’

  For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke.

  ‘You, Vitalis …’ Maximus broke the moment first.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You want to leave the army, I hear.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I …’

  ‘Request denied.’

  ‘You, Leocadius …’

  The man stood to attention.

  ‘Do not wish to be consul. Request denied.’

  He slammed the goblet down.

  ‘Whatever happens,’ the general said, ‘You two will always be on the Wall. So will Justinus. So will Paternus. There is nothing else.’

  Just as Julia’s wedding was held behind closed doors and no one shouted ‘Talassio’ or strewed her with flowers, so the funeral of her father was a quick and quiet business. In the old days, the death of a great man was followed by the munera, an orgy of death in which gladiators faced each other over the purpling corpse and human sacrifices followed the man to his grave. Matidia did not have the strength left in her to fight for the man now that he was gone and she abandoned centuries of tradition and let Bishop Dalmatius have his way. The Christians laid Julius Longinus in a lead box inside a stone sarcophagus, his fast-decaying body packed with chalk. But there were no grave goods with him. His rings passed to his widow and his staff of office to his successor, Leocadius Honorius. When they laid Longinus in the ground, his head faced to the west, to wait for the Second Coming of a god he had never really believed in.

  As the summer unfolded and the sun grew hotter, general Maximus rode out with Stephanus most days and Vitalis was often with them. The harvest was rich in the golden fields and the vines and hops ripened under a cloudless blue. Of barbarians and conspiracies and Valentinus there was no sign. Leocadius did indeed enjoy the sweep of the governor’s palace, with or without his mother-in-law. He sold the little villa on the edge of the city and now he had more slaves than he knew what to do with. He largely let the Ordo do the routine work, the day to day, because he knew nothing about sewerage systems and cared even less.