"Look," the woman snapped, "He's got Bones. That's Emogene's dog. What is he doing with her dog?"
Corbulo blushed as the hard, hostile faces glared at him, waiting for him to answer. He should have known. The dog was going home. He had only been tagging along with him because they were going in the same direction. For a split second Corbulo thought about making a run for it but he knew he wouldn't get far. Fool. The Batavian auxiliaries had been right. He was going to get his throat cut. He looked down at the dog.
"Like I said," he muttered, "the animal came to me in the forest. I never met this girl and I certainly did not steal the dog. He just followed me." Corbulo stopped as he had a sudden idea. "I shall trade with you," he said turning to the woman. "Let me walk out of this village and if the dog follows me he is mine. If he decides to stay then he is yours. Agreed?"
The woman picked nervously at her finger nails. She looked undecided.
"That seems fair," the blacksmith growled.
Corbulo nodded and his earlier panic started to subside. He turned to the blacksmith. "I see that you are a skilled man. Do you have a bow and some arrows? I will exchange them for some Roman copper coins."
Corbulo undid a small leather pouch from his belt and shook the copper coins into his hand. Then he held them up for all to see.
The blacksmith peered closely at the coins and then at Corbulo. After a long pause he nodded. "I will trade with you."
Corbulo wiped the sweat from his face as he followed the blacksmith into his workshop. Quintus had given him the copper coins as a final parting gift. There was not much he could spend the money on up here. He had been saving them up in case he needed to bribe the Roman soldiers but investing in a bow and arrows seemed a better option. The bow would allow him to hunt and provide food for himself.
The workshop was boiling hot. A large kiln fired by charcoal formed the back of the turf and thatch building with the smoke escaping through a chimney. In the middle of the workshop was a large heavy wooden table. An array of metal objects in various states of completion lay upon it. The blacksmith shuffled across the space and stopped beside a metal rack from which hung an arsenal of finished weapons. He plucked a bow from the rack and handed it to Corbulo. Then he folded his arms across his chest. Corbulo had never used a bow in his life. He hated and despised bowmen but now he needed the weapon. He squeezed the wood and tried the bow string. It seemed sturdy enough. He looked up and nodded. Then he handed over the pouch of copper coins. The trade was complete.
He was just about to turn for the exit when his eye caught sight of a sword leaning against the rack. He froze. It was a spatha, a Roman auxiliary cavalryman's sword. There was no doubt about it. He stared at the long shiny steel blade with its rounded tip. It was definitely a Roman cavalry man's sword. What was it doing here? He raised his hand and pointed at the weapon.
"Where did you get that sword?" he exclaimed.
The blacksmith followed his gaze and grunted.
"That sword. I traded it from a man who lives in Bannatia, Dougal's village by the sea."
Corbulo stared at the spatha.
"How do I get to Bannatia?" he muttered trying to hide his growing excitement.
The blacksmith gestured with his head.
"You cannot miss it if you keep going north from here. Bannatia is on a headland sticking out into the sea."
Corbulo wrenched his eyes from the sword and stepped out of the workshop. The villagers were still watching him. He nodded a farewell to the blacksmith and then turned to look at the big war dog. Would the dog come with him this time? The beast had not moved.
"Come," he called as he started walking. Behind him the animal hopped up and started to follow. Corbulo heard a gasp from amongst the villagers. The war dog was well trained and he was valuable. Corbulo kept on walking and as he did so he heard the villagers following on behind. At the edge of the settlement he glanced round. The dog was still with him. A crowd had gathered by now. Some of the people were calling out to the dog, trying to make it come to them. Corbulo kept on walking. He was out of the village now. The green rolling fields beckoned. He turned and looked back. The dog had sat down on the path. The beast was staring at him as behind him the villagers were calling out enticing the animal to return to them. Corbulo made eye contact with the dog and sighed. The animal had been a good companion but he could see now that the dog was not going any further with him. The war dog had come home.
"Thank you," Corbulo muttered. The war dog had saved his life. For a moment Corbulo looked sad. Then he dipped his head respectfully at the dog and without another glance he turned and strode away across the fields. When at last he looked back the dog and the villagers had gone.
Chapter Forty One - Cawdor
A thick mist covered the woodlands and fields. It was early morning. Corbulo trudged along the path. He could feel the warmth of the rising sun on his back. It had been two days since he had said goodbye to the dog and he was missing the animals company. The road had been a lonely place. He had headed west in the direction of Cawdor. Quintus had told him that Cawdor was the last of the permanent Roman forts, and the most northerly, in the long chain of fortifications that stretched away southwards along the highland line. Slung over his shoulder he carried his newly acquired bow and quiver. The blacksmith had included seven arrows and Corbulo had made his first kill yesterday when he had brought down a fat duck. He had cooked the meat that night and it had tasted delicious. With the bow and his arrows he would be able to hunt for food. It would allow him to maintain himself a little longer as he searched for Marcus.
The Roman fort loomed up out of the early morning mist. The rectangular fort had been placed on the south side of the Nairn river with its northern ramparts protected by the river. As Corbulo trudged along the track towards it, he could see the thick turf filled wooden ramparts and the tall watch tower with its thatched roof, beside the south west gate. Two sentries were on guard. He raised his hand and cried out in Latin in a loud voice. He had done the same with each Roman fort he'd approached. It paid to be careful and to show that he had no hostile intent. The soldiers he'd met had been tense and quite happy to shoot first and ask questions later. The Batavian auxiliaries turned to look at him but did not answer. A Scorpion, a tension sprung bolt thrower that could fire a spear over a hundred yards, mounted on a tripod, stood beside the guards on the platform of the watchtower. As he drew closer to the southern gate Corbulo passed a blackened, shrunken head that had been stuck onto a spear and planted into the earth.
He came to a halt before the deep V shaped ditch that protected the fort's ramparts. The wooden gate ahead was closed.
"Who are you?" one of the guards called out in Latin.
"A friend," Corbulo replied raising the palms of his hand, "I wish to speak with your commanding officer."
"About what?"
Corbulo stared up at the guards. "I have been told that you boys belong to the Ninth Batavians. If that is so, tell Prefect Chariovalda that an old acquaintance is outside waiting for him."
The guards glanced at each other. Then one of them turned and shouted at someone in the camp and a moment later the gate creaked open. Corbulo stepped into the fort and the auxiliaries hastily closed the gate behind him. He looked around. The fort seemed like any other he had seen. In the centre of the open rectangular space was a single storey barracks building made of turf, timber and thatch. A few worn looking soldiers tents had been raised along the northern ramparts and inside Corbulo could make out the shapes of several Carroballista, bolt throwers mounted on wagons. He grunted in surprise. He had not expected that kind of weaponry in a fort of this size. Closer by, along the western wall, a horse and a cow stood tethered to a stake and beside them a couple of engineers were repairing a cart. They gave him a sour glance. He turned towards the barracks. Smoke was rising from a hole in the roof. Then he noticed an auxiliary soldier striding towards him. Corbulo nodded politely as he faintly recognised him. The Prefect and commander of t
he Ninth Batavians was nearly the same age as himself. It had been a long time since he had last seen him. He didn't really know the officer but at Inchtuthil Quintus had made him memorise the names of the Roman forts, units and commanders that he was likely to encounter and he remembered the name of the commander of the Ninth Batavians. He had met him once before.
"Do I know you?" the Prefect said in good natured disappointment. "The guard said that you were an old acquaintance, I was expecting..."
"I am sorry," Corbulo interrupted, "I was afraid your men would not let me in. We met once at Deva. You and your auxiliaries came with my Cohort when we raided Hibernia. It was about ten years ago."
The prefect stared at Corbulo as if he was searching his memory. Then a grin appeared on his face.
"Ah the great raid on Hibernia, I remember. Yes I recognise you now. Hibernia," he allowed the name to linger for a moment, "If I recall it rained every single day that we were there."
Corbulo nodded and grinned.
"We don't get many visitors up here," the Prefect said wearily, "but I do know who you are. You are that watch commander from the Twentieth who refused to support Vitellius when all your comrades did. They chained you to a tree outside the camp and made you eat nothing but barley for a month."
Corbulo looked surprised. "You heard about that?"
"Everyone did," the Prefect said with a bemused look.
Corbulo chuckled.
"So what brings you to our comfortable outpost on the edge of the world?"
Corbulo scratched his chin. "I am retired now," he said. "I have a son who served with the 2nd Batavians. He had been posted as missing. On his last mission he was sent north. He was on his own. I am looking for him." Corbulo paused. "Have you or your men heard anything? Maybe the tribes are holding him as a hostage or as a slave. His name is Marcus. He may have come through here late last year."
The Prefect looked thoughtful. Then he shook his head. "Afraid I haven't heard anything about a missing Roman soldier," he replied. He raised his hand and pointed to the east. "Over there live the Vacomagi. Their capital is called Tuesis. You will have passed through their land to get here. They are hostile to us." The Prefect turned and pointed to the west. "Over in that direction we have the Decantae. They have made a formal alliance with us. We patrol as far as the great river. My advice is that if you are looking for your missing son, go and ask the Decantae. They are friendly enough as long as you don't insult them or try and sleep with their women."
Corbulo turned to look towards the west. There was a resigned look on his face.
"The Decantae," he murmured. "How far is it to their principal settlement?"
"About fifteen miles," the Prefect replied. "It's near the coast between the river and the sea."
"A day's walk," Corbulo said. He nodded his thanks and turned to leave. Then he hesitated. "Prefect," Corbulo said thoughtfully, "I seem to remember that the Ninth Batavians are an all infantry unit. Is that still the case?"
"Yes that's right," the Prefect replied. "My command is spread across the whole district. In addition to my twelve watch and signal towers, half my men are here and the other half are manning the fort at Balnageith further to the east."
"So there are no cavalry units in the area?" Corbulo asked.
The Prefect shook his head. "We sometimes use local horses to get around but we are all infantry. If you are looking for a cavalry unit, you will have to go south to find them. None around here."
Corbulo looked pleased. He turned for the gate.
"Stay and have some breakfast with us," the Prefect said suddenly. "Like I said we don't get many visitors. I could do with the company." He looked around and Corbulo realised that the Prefect was bored. "This fort is the arse end of the world and I have to share it with a bunch of mindless recruits," the officer complained. "Come and have some porridge and tell me the news from the south."
Corbulo followed the man into the barracks. A line of auxiliaries were sitting along a table having breakfast. They looked up at him but no one said a word. The Prefect was right, the men looked young. They sat down at a separate table to the men and a cook slapped two bowls of porridge onto the table.
"I have got two more years to go before I retire and earn my citizenship," the Prefect said as he labelled the porridge into his mouth. "Two more years to go. I should have had a nice easy posting. Somewhere in the south, close to the sea. A place where the local market sells muscles. Gods, I miss eating muscles. The food we receive up here is shit."
The officer gave his cook a dark look but the cook pretended not to notice.
"Last winter was terrible," the Prefect muttered, "Half this fort was built in the dark. But at least we don't have any trouble from the Decantae. All the attacks on my men come from the highlands to the south. That's where the Caledonians like to hide. We caught one war band only a few weeks ago. They had a woman fighting with them." The Prefect finished his porridge and wiped his mouth with his hand. "The last time any of us here had a woman was nearly a year ago," he said wearily. "My men are getting a little frustrated. It's going to lead to trouble."
"It looks like you are in the middle of two feuding tribes," Corbulo said as he finished off his porridge.
The Prefect laughed. "The Decantae and the Vacomagi hate each other more than they hate us and I am glad they do. Having to cope with these hit and run attacks from one tribe is just about all we handle."
Corbulo was studying the Prefect with a thoughtful gaze.
"I hear rumours," Corbulo said, "That amber can be found here, somewhere along the coast?"
The expression on the Prefect's face changed abruptly. He looked away.
"No, I didn't hear about that. I don't know anything about any amber," the officer murmured.
Chapter Forty Two - The Decantae
Corbulo looked troubled as he strode away from the fort. The Prefect had been lying to him when he'd said he knew nothing about the amber. He had seen it in the man's eyes. The officer was hiding something. He passed the impaled head on its spear and turned westwards. Fifteen miles was not too far he thought but his legs felt heavy and clumsy with disappointment. Cawdor had been the last fort in the chain of Roman fortifications and now this village of the Decantae may well be the final place where he could ask for information about Marcus. His search was coming to an end. Apprehensively he glanced up at the sky. How long did he have before the dreaded Caledonian winter came? He didn't know. If the Decantae had no news then he wasn't sure what he was going to do next. He could, he supposed, ask around in the Caledonian settlements that he'd seen but he was wary of that after his last encounter with the locals and now that the big war dog was no longer at his side. His mood soured. Maybe that was what he would end up doing? Maybe he was destined to have his throat cut and to be buried in an unmarked grave. He kicked at a stone and sent it flying through the air.
The Decantae village nestled on a flat terrace overlooking the great wooded river valley that cut through the land towards the southwest. It was late in the day and the sun had vanished behind the grey mountains to the west. Corbulo paused amongst the trees of the forest and stared down at the place. The round houses had been built in a large circle, grouped around an open space with all their doorways facing northeast as if intended to keep out the wind. Like the previous settlement he had entered a few days ago this one too did not have a wall or any external defences. The Decantae, it seemed, feared nothing and nobody. The village was large and full of activity. Smoke was curling upwards from at least six kilns and Corbulo could hear the dull rhythmic banging of blacksmiths at work. The settlement seemed to be another centre for iron production and if the village produced iron goods then it would be wealthy. He studied the men and women at work in the nearby fields. The villagers had planted grain in the fertile fields that surrounded their houses and on the higher ground, enclosed by a stone wall, were herds of cattle, horses and flocks of sheep. The animals were being supervised by a group of boys who were shoutin
g to each other in loud excited voices. A couple of dogs were barking out of sight. Large, well organised and prosperous, that meant men with power would reside in this place. Corbulo scratched his ear. He would have to be careful even though these people were the nominal friends and allies of Rome.
Corbulo stepped out from the trees and started towards the nearest house. To the north he caught a sudden glimpse of the sea. Two ships were anchored close to the shore. The people working in the fields stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him. As he approached the circle of round houses three armed men strode out to meet him. They halted and spread out blocking his path. One of the warriors had a nasty looking wound across his cheek that looked barely healed. All three of them stared at him suspiciously.
"I am a friend," Corbulo said raising the palm of his hand. "I have come from the Roman fort at Cawdor. I want to speak with your leader."
"He is not here, he will be back tomorrow," one of the men replied.
"You speak our language very well for a Roman," another muttered, "Who are you and what do you want?"
"I am a friend," Corbulo repeated himself. "The commander of the Roman fort said that the Decantae are friends and allies of Rome. I am here to look for my son. He is a Roman, like the men at Cawdor, but he is missing."
The warriors glanced at each other.
"Very well Roman," one of them said at last, "you are welcome to stay in our village tonight. We are going to have a feast, you may join us."
Corbulo nodded gratefully. "I would like that very much," he murmured.
***
It was night. Corbulo sat on the straw covered floor inside the largest and most impressive round house in the settlement. The front of the house had been built from stone and turf and the entrance floor laid out with large smooth white stones. Inside the main circular room a ring of massive wooden poles and beams held up the roof. The building was large enough to have a second floor. As he looked around Corbulo noticed a ladder disappearing into a dark hole in the wooden ceiling. He sat close to the large crackling fire sipping mead from a leather flask that was being passed round the packed circle of warriors. Another smaller fire, set within a circle of stones, was burning in the centre of the room. The flickering and leaping firelight was the only source of light in the crowded and noisy house. The warriors were pissed. Their laughter, shouts and boasting filled the room as a whole glistening pig roasted slowly over the fire. Goblets of fat exploded into the flames. The smell was delicious and Corbulo felt his stomach growling with hunger. The feast, someone had tried to explain to him was in honour of the forthcoming victory over the Vacomagi. Corbulo had listened politely and had only been able to understand half of what the warrior had been trying to tell him. A woman appeared with another flask of mead. By the doorway, two men with red noses and cheeks, from too much drinking, had started to sing a song. Soon the others joined in until the whole house was heaving. Corbulo looked around him and tried to smile. If only Quintus could see him now, sitting in the midst of their former foes, getting slowly pissed on mead. His friend would never believe him.
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