Britannia: Part I: The Wall

by Richard Denham

  Paulinus Hupo was a frequent visitor in those first weeks and various members of the Black Knives came and went under cover of darkness. It was Hupo who called the west wing the House of the Women because two of them lived there. One was an increasingly sullen Roman matron, beginning each day to look more like her mother and when she was not doting on the sickly, mewling girl she had given birth to and named Aelia, of the sun, she was snapping at Leocadius. She was intrigued by the new compound her husband had had built beyond the orchard, but the walls were high and she could not see in. Neither was she allowed through the gate where garrison soldiers stood guard.

  It was here that Honoria spent most of her time. She had never had servants before and found her new life strange and unsettling. Her boy was getting stronger every day and was even beginning to show signs of wanting to stand. He ate everything that was in reach and his nursemaid was kept busy making sure that everything he ate was food. She had breastfed the boy herself, despite the expensive nutrix bought for her by Hupo. Her mother, who knew all there was to know about preventing children although little about children themselves, had recommended it as a sovereign remedy against more appearing like peas in a pod and Honoria had embraced the idea, enjoying both the closeness with her son and also the freedom it gave her in bed with Leocadius and, when it was politic, Hupo.

  She knew about Julia; Julia did not know about her. But the old consul’s daughter was not a stupid woman and she knew that when the new consul was away at night, he could be anywhere, carousing with the low-life beyond the Walbrook, rolling in the sheets with someone else. Yet despite this, she could not rouse herself to seduce him back into her bed. Her daughter had become her world and, when she looked back on it, sharing her bed with Leocadius had not been so very wonderful even at the first. He visited her occasionally and made desultory love to her, which she received politely. Other than that, they barely spoke. Her mother looked at the girl with pity in her eyes; it was like looking into a mirror, one that reflected, in the distorted brass, all the years of pain.

  Dalmatius’ church that had been the temple of Jupiter was crowded that Die Solis as the summer was dying and the last rays of the sun glanced off the coloured windows, dappling the standing congregation with reds and blues and golds.

  ‘Let us pray,’ the bishop intoned and there was a shuffling and murmuring as everyone stretched themselves on the cold stone of the floor, face down. Even the old were helped into that position of the Christ, with arms outstretched so that the fingertips of the faithful touched, creating a web of prayerfulness across the whole church floor.

  But one man was not lying down. He was not even kneeling. He was standing like an ox in the furrow looking at Dalmatius.

  ‘Pelagius,’ the bishop said. ‘Time to pray, my son.’

  There was muttering from the floor and the craning of necks as people tried to see what was happening. Pelagius did not move. ‘You are wrong, bishop,’ he said. There was an audible gasp and Dalmatius’ attendants were on their feet, scowling at this outrage and waiting for the word from their lord and master.

  ‘Wrong?’ Dalmatius’ voice rang around the stone.

  ‘There is no such thing as original sin.’

  For a moment, nothing moved. It was as if the dust motes, twirling in the air, had stopped and hung suspended.

  ‘You would deny your Lord, blasphemer?’ Dalmatius roared.

  ‘No, bishop.’ Pelagius’ voice was clear and sharp. ‘I would deny you.’

  ‘I speak for the church of Rome,’ Dalmatius said. His voice held the note of one who knows that he has ultimate right on his side. He allowed himself a smug nod to his henchmen, who flexed and shifted, awaiting that the moment to strike the heretic down, if God did not do it first.

  ‘Then the Church of Rome is wrong,’ Pelagius answered.

  Another gasp and this time people were on their feet, all eyes turned to the heretic in their midst.

  ‘Stone him!’ Dalmatius thundered. It was a dramatic order, but ammunition in that church was hard to come by. Pelagius held up his hand and parried the first blow with his arm. The second caught him on the forehead and he staggered backwards. Hands were clawing at him, fists and feet lashing out, people screaming and spitting. He felt himself being forced backwards out of the door and knew he had to keep his footing no matter what. Once he went down under this mob, there would be no getting up.

  ‘Forgive them,’ he muttered, ‘for they know not what they do.’

  He slipped as he reached the courtyard and rolled in the dust, his face a mask of blood. Still they were coming for him, snarling faces and snapping curses. Then they stopped and fell silent. Pelagius twisted round to a half-kneeling position to see a tribune of the VI Victrix, his mail glinting in the sun, his sword drawn. The mob had not been stopped by one man alone. It had been stopped by the power they knew he had at his back. Few in that crowd of Christians had seen a legion take a city, but they knew it was possible. And to take a church was the work of moments. One by one they fell back and the bishop’s assistants, the deacons in their Chi-Rho robes, ushered them all back inside.

  ‘Vitalis,’ Pelagius gasped, spitting the dust from his mouth. ‘I think I owe you my life.’

  The tribune helped him up. ‘Been upsetting people again?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought it was time,’ Pelagius said, ‘for a little truth.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ Vitalis sheathed his sword and led the man away. The square was surprisingly deserted at this hour of the morning and the chanting of the Christians was dying away. ‘You probably don’t want to hear this now, or then again, perhaps you do.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m up to riddles at the moment.’

  ‘There is to be an attack on Dalmatius’ church. By the children of darkness.’

  Pelagius stood still, looking into the tribune’s face. ‘How do you know?’ he asked. ‘Are you still part of it?’

  ‘From what I’ve just seen,’ Vitalis said, ‘if that’s an example of your Christ, I’ll stay with Mithras any day.’

  ‘No,’ Pelagius said sadly. ‘That’s not an example of my Christ; it’s an example of Dalmatius. That’s very different, believe me.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t mind if they burned his church down, then?’

  ‘Of course I would,’ Pelagius told him. ‘There are innocent women and children in there.’

  ‘Not according to Dalmatius, there aren’t,’ Vitalis reminded him.

  ‘When will this happen?’ Pelagius asked, ‘the attack?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. I’ve done my best to deter them already. It’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘I’ll see consul Leocadius,’ Vitalis said. ‘And if that doesn’t work, General Maximus. One of them will have an answer.’

  ‘What the hell has it got to do with me?’ Leocadius asked. He was lounging on a couch that night, sampling some excellent oysters. Honoria lay on the couch next to him, the mistress and the love of the consul of Maxima Caesarensis.

  ‘I thought you had some sort of role in this city,’ Vitalis snapped. ‘Over and above whoremaster, that is.’

  Leocadius was on his feet in a second and Honoria sat upright. Not that it was needed, but her dagger was never very far away. The consul’s jaw twitched as he faced the man. Then he took a deep and relaxed, ‘I’m going to forget you said that, Vitalis,’ he murmured, ‘because it’s you.’ He turned away and poured himself more wine. He stood staring at the wall for a moment, ignoring the others. Then he turned back.

  ‘I can issue warnings,’ he said, ‘in my official capacity. Slapping Dalmatius and Critus into gaol isn’t going to achieve much.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because behind them both there are other religious maniacs hell-bent on destroying each other.’ He looked at Vitalis, wondering what had happened to the carefree young lad he had known on the Wall before each of them wore these rings. On the other hand, he was not so su
rprised; Vitalis had always had a moral streak a mile wide. He was too good for this wicked world, really.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Vit,’ he promised. ‘But if I were you, I’d have a word with Maximus.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with me?’ the general asked. He was sitting in the principia of his camp to the west that night, drinking with Stephanus and feeding his dog strips of venison.

  ‘You are Dux Britannorum, sir,’ Vitalis was standing to attention, dressed in parade armour, hoping for the impossible.

  Stephanus sucked his teeth and shook his head. He had got to know Magnus Maximus fairly well over the last months, better than he knew Vitalis. But he did recognize a man with a death wish when he saw one. In the event, the general was quite restrained. He toyed with unleashing the mastiff on the man, slicing through his breastbone with the spatha lying in the corner. In fact, he did neither. ‘Thank you, tribune,’ he said, ‘for reminding me. I’m sure you can find your own way out.’

  Stephanus breathed again.

  The sun was still bright on the hills above Din Paladyr and a couple of men were wrestling on the grass kept short by the wind and the sheep. It was rather a one-sided contest. One of them was a warrior, tall and powerful, a tribune of the VI Victrix and Praefectus Gentium of Valentia. The other was a seven year old, wiry, tough, laughing and tumbling as the man broke all the rules by tickling him. And yet the boy won every bout.

  She watched them on the hillside, holding her other boy to her. It would not be that long before little Edirne took to the rough and tumble with Taran and the man they both looked on as their father. There was still something between them that she could not remove, like a river in full spate or a mountain ice-clad in winter. When they were alone, just the two of them, by the fire’s glow, when they made love, he was never quite with her, not completely. It was just something she would have to live with. And it would be well.

  Paternus saw him first. With all his years on the Wall, his old instincts had never left him. He rolled upright, holding the struggling Taran under one arm. It was a rider, on one of the short-legged shaggy ponies of the north, galloping up from the ravines that scoured the land, calling out to the queen of the Votadini. Brenna stood up, resting the baby on her hip and waited. The horseman reined in, the animal’s flanks flecked with white.

  ‘An army, my lady,’ the rider gasped, chest heaving.

  ‘Where?’ Paternus asked. ‘And how many?’

  ‘More than the eye can see,’ the rider told him. ‘Led by a man in a silver helmet. They’re making for the Wall.’

  CHAPTER XIX

  Paulinus Hupo had been to the eternal city once, when he was a boy. He had been to the Coliseum, that huge arena where men died for the pleasure of the mob. He had been one of the mob that day and it was an experience he would never forget. Clowns had come on first, wearing grotesque masks, dancing and cavorting, hitting each other with pigs’ bladders. Then, as the sun rose and the seats emptied, the Noxii were brought on, haggard criminals roped together and unarmed. There were no Christians among them – all that had gone with the deified Constantine who had embraced the peculiar Galilean cult on his deathbed. But the Noxii died anyway as the gladiators whirled around them, practising their deadly art, pirouetting and posturing, going through their paces as they did in their training schools, but with living human beings as their targets. The crowd shouted hysterically as the sharp blades bit home and the tridents slid through skin and flesh to rip limbs entangled and already captured in the nets.

  For years he had pestered Julius Longinus with the idea. All the man had to do was make him Aedile, official Games organizer and he, Hupo, would do the rest. Nothing too ambitious; no lions or bears; just man against man. It happened all the time in the real world. It was the way of that world. Only the toughest survive; the weak and the puny go to the wall; or at least, they are dragged out of the arena through the gate of death. For years, Longinus had had his answer ready – he could not offend Dalmatius nor the Christian church generally; the city’s amphitheatre had fallen into rack and ruin – it was full of undesirables sleeping rough and a whole army of feral cats.

  Now, things were different. Leocadius Honorius was consul of Maxima Caesarenius; good old Leo. Hupo had the bent bastard in the palm of his hand anyway. It was going to be a picnic.

  ‘No,’ Leocadius said flatly, looking at the man. Hupo had come to him in the night-time, as was his custom when there were dark doings to be discussed. ‘Out of the question.’ Leocadius knew that Hupo had murdered his father-in-law although he also knew he would never be able to prove it. And the more he had to work with this degenerate, the less he liked it. Increasingly these days, there was a little voice inside his head, the voice of his conscience. And it sounded exactly like the voice of Vitalis.

  ‘What’s your objection?’ Hupo asked him. He knew that Leocadius had butchered his predecessor to get his job and that could be useful in the blackmail stakes if the consul persisted. What was the matter with the man? He had gone along with everything so far, taking Hupo’s backhanders without demur. He had continued to pay the going rate for the protection of the Black Knives and knew his accountants were able to make it all right in his annual report to the Emperor. ‘You could be the star, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Of the arena. The Emperor Commodus, they say, killed one hundred and thirty seven men in the Coliseum.’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard that,’ Leocadius smiled, ‘but weren’t their swords made of lead?’

  ‘We can arrange that,’ Hupo said.

  ‘The hell we can,’ Leocadius laughed. ‘If I’m going into the arena, it’ll be a fair fight.’

  ‘To the death?’ Hupo asked.

  ‘To the death!’ the consul answered.

  Hupo smiled. What a vain bastard this man was. One minute he was refusing, the next he could not wait to die in the sand.

  ‘There’s one proviso,’ Leocadius said. ‘We’ll have to hold the event at night. And outside the city. I don’t know how Maximus will stand on any of this and the last thing either of us wants is to have the army stepping in.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Hupo, ‘and I know just the place.’

  The torches threw flickering reflections into the boughs of the oaks as the trickle grew to a flood. Half of Londinium was on its way east, beyond Theodosius’ towers manned by the Batavi that night. They gabbled happily under the fitful moon, peeping out from the clouds now and then, as eager to watch the spectacle as the people on the ground. Men carried pitchers of ale and wine; women nattered about whatever it is women natter about; children ran and played and frightened each other jumping out from behind the dark trees.

  Tonight the camp of the Black Knives was transformed. Deep in one of those forests that Stephanus the German so hated, a circle had been marked out with timbers and makeshift seating set up on raked angles so that the crowd would miss none of the entertainment. The acoustics would have to take care of themselves, but the ever-obliging Hupo had set up a special stand for the ladies so that they could best hear the screams and groans of the wounded.

  Hupo’s people were everywhere, selling wine, olives and oysters from their brightly painted stalls. Little clay effigies of gladiators were available, hoplomachi and retiarii, the barley-men of the sword and net; myrmillons with their fish-crested helmets and secutors with their huge oblong shields. Children buzzed around them, pestering their parents to let them collect the set. There was the crash of drums and the clash of tambourines and Hupo himself welcomed the great and good of Londinium to the best seats. It had been years since the Games were held in this city and old men were boring everyone to death with their reminiscences and grumbling because the Aedile had got this wrong; and that was not right either.

  Hupo himself could not have cared less. Whatever he had spent on tonight’s entertainment, he was recouping handsomely on the gate money and that was before the betting started. He was suitably dressed for the occasion, wearing all
the splendour of a bygone age. Nobody wore a toga anymore, but Paulinus Hupo was draped in one tonight, trying not to fall over the damned thing with its heavy purple fringe. His face was painted white with large red circles on his cheeks like a clown and on his head he wore a wig of crimson, coiling like the snakes of Medusa. He satisfied himself that all was well in the filling auditorium and slipped beyond the bushes to where his gladiators waited.

  In the ancient days these men would have stood in the animal pens below the arena, listening to the roars of the crowd as they bayed for blood. The oak forest was the best that Hupo could do, but it was cold out of the circle of the torches and away from the throng and several of the fighters were shivering with the tension of the moment. They were slaves, bound by every custom of Rome, to do their master’s bidding. And tonight, that master was Paulinus Hupo. He had bought them and it was their duty, if the crowd wished it, to die.

  It was that that brought the city in their thousands, both sexes, all ages, all classes; the rumour, carefully spread by the Aedile, that there would be at least one fight to the death. Hupo checked the weapons, feeling the cutting edge of the Thracians’ sicas, the deadly curved swords with the wooden hilts. He weighted the nets of the retiarii, the trident men and checked the padding on arms and legs. He would have dearly loved to have had a matched pair of female fighters but the time had been too short and Honoria had positively refused. She did not object to mixing it with another girl; she had been doing that in the stews of Londinium for most of her life. What she objected to were the terrible hairstyles and all that sweating and grunting in public. She kept that sort of thing for the bedroom. At the mention of bedroom and at the sight of her lowered lashes, Hupo had capitulated, albeit unwillingly.