by Amy Jarecki
Titus handed the scroll to Colin. When he grasped it, Titus kept his fingers wrapped around the vellum. “Did you see Elspeth?”
“She was there.” Colin opened his mouth as if he was going to comment further, but his eyes shifted and he clamped his lips shut.
Titus released the missive. “Tell the king I want her present when we sign the treaty. This once I give my word she will not be harmed.”
Colin held out his palm. “There is a matter of payment.”
Unbelievable greed. “My men were killed.”
“I didna do the killing.”
Jaw twitching, Titus reached for his purse and dropped the coins into the Gale’s open palm. It was the price of insuring the missive reached the Pict king. And his chance to see Elspeth again. Will she ever forgive me?
****
Well past dark, Titus climbed the tower to the battlements. On full alert, his men were spread out, crouched low to avoid being seen per his orders. He thought it unlikely the raiders would attack the command post, but he’d look a fool if they scaled the walls and his men had not followed his own directive.
He knelt down beside a group of legionaries passing the time watching two men play a game of Calculi. Titus kneeled down with a grin. An older soldier with a heavy beard was clearly being outwitted by one of the younger legionaries, the boy’s white stones mounting up on the checked board. He would soon have his five in a row.
The soldier next to Titus glanced over. His eyes popped round. “I did not expect to see you up here, sir.”
“And why not? We are lying in wait for the enemy. I should not be tucked away in my chamber whilst expecting my men to man the battlements without me.”
The boy won, and Titus leaned in to be heard. “I would like to be your next challenge.”
“Sir?” The young man looked as if he were facing a firing squad, his eyes as wide as his playing stones.
“It has been many years since I enjoyed a game of Calculi.” Titus scooted up to the game board. “I’ll take the black stones.”
A soft chuckle came from behind. “You’d best not beat the centurion. You’ll be working in the kitchen for the rest of your life,” a soldier whispered.
The boy shot him a nervous grin, and Titus asked, “What is your name, soldier?”
“Alerio.”
Titus patted his shoulder. “’Tis but a game. If you can outmaneuver me, I might just find a place for you removed from the cooking fire.”
The game was really quite simple. Taking turns, stones were placed in the squares on the board and the first man to line up five in a row won. If the board filled without a row of five, it was a draw. Titus could not remember the last time he’d lost, but as they played, Alerio showed cunning and promise.
When the game appeared as if it would end in a draw, Titus heard the faintest thud. He froze. He put his finger to his lips and locked eyes with his men. He pointed down, indicating something was below.
With a clatter, a grappling hook swung over the crenel and nearly skewered him in the head. Without making a noise, Titus glared at the hook and snarled. Silently, he motioned for the men to hold their positions, slowly drawing this short sword from its scabbard. The hook strained and scraped against the stone as someone began to ascend—footsteps plodded against the wall.
The flutter of anticipation churned in his bowels. Titus salivated, and his fingers twitched around his hilt. At last he’d seize the opportunity to end these senseless raids.
He smelled the bastard first. Then the beast wearing furs draped across one bare shoulder jumped through the crenel. As fast as the strike of an asp, Titus wrapped him in a stranglehold and clapped a hand over his mouth. He angled the point of his sword toward the brigand’s neck. “One peep and you shall be greeted by the fires of hell.”
Another barbarian slipped over the battlement, and Alerio pounced. Before the lad’s hand covered the cur’s mouth, he cried out, alarming the conspirators below.
Bacchus lunged toward the crenel and peered over the side of the wall. “They flee. Cavalry, to your horses!”
In the blink of an eye, the second barbarian broke free from Alerio’s grasp. The prisoner reached for the rope. With a roar, a legionary swung his battle-axe and hit the savage square in the back. Bellowing, he arched against the strike, blood gushing from his mouth. The legionary yanked out his axe, and the brute tumbled head first to the earth below.
Holding his grasp firm, Titus kicked out at the axe-wielding legionary. “Now we cannot question the bastard. Think before you strike, man.” He inclined his head toward the fallen enemy. “Get your arse down there and put his head on a stake outside the fortress gates. Let all see how we dispense of marauding renegades.”
Titus pulled the remaining barbarian up and faced the soldiers. “We shall question this traitor in the principia. Guards, shackle him now. This one cannot slip away.”
After the prisoner was fitted with manacles and dragged to the principia, Titus ordered him bound to a rickety wooden chair. He pulled the decanus aside. “You know what to do. Deny him food or water until he talks. Fetch me when he’s about to break. This will be a long night.”
****
Titus reclined in his chamber and nursed a tankard of mead. His legionaries would beat fear into the raider, and Titus would not be needed until the traitor was ready to talk. In his younger days, he had done his share of interrogating. Roman practices were brutal, and he no longer lusted for it, though he would show these beasts no mercy until they told him why they were raiding his forts and who was behind these raids.
He sipped the honeyed drink and stared into the fire. For all that is holy, please absolve the Picts of these crimes. A Herculean-sized hole stretched his heart. He needed to get Elspeth out of his head. Before he’d arrived in Vindolanda, he was the leading candidate to become Dux Britanniarum. But he’d all but ruined his chances. The idea of reporting to Dulcitius repulsed him. The only way to regain Theodosius’s favor was to stop these raids and reclaim complete control of the wall.
Titus drained the last of his mead when a tap resounded from the door. “Come.”
Alerio stepped inside. “Sir, we’re ready for you.”
“So soon?” Titus stood, brushed off his uniform and snatched up his discipline stick. “We may get some sleep this night after all.”
“I know not.” Frowning, Alerio dropped a handful of denarii into Titus’s hand. “We found these in the prisoner’s purse, but he cannot understand a word we say.”
Titus shook the coins and puzzled. “Denarii? Paid in Roman coin?”
“True, but I think we’ll not gain any information out of him even if we beat him to death.”
Together they walked to the principia. The decanus stood straight with a six-tailed whip in his hand. Titus glanced at the battered and swollen face of the captive. The pathetic man sat bound to the chair, looking like a miserable caveman. He eyed Titus with fear that hung in the room like the thick pall of fresh horse dung on hot cobblestones. Titus smirked. This was not a soldier trained to swallow his pain even in the face of death.
He slapped his stick in the palm of his hand and walked a full circle around the prisoner. “What tribe are you from?”
“No.”
Titus looked at the decanus who shrugged. “’Tis all he’s said.”
He turned to Alerio. “Fetch me a quill and vellum.”
Titus pulled up a stool and sat across from the bleeding captive and eyed the decanus. “Release his right hand.”
Alerio returned quickly with the quill. Titus dipped it into a pot of ink and drew a map of Britannia with Hadrian’s Wall across it. He looked at the prisoner and marked an X where Vindolanda was, and pointed to himself. “We are here. Vindolanda.” He pointed to the captive’s heart. “Where do you hail from?”
Titus offered the quill to the prisoner and held out the vellum. The man made an X at the top of the island, the extreme north.
Titus looked from Alerio to th
e decanus. “He’s from the highlands. That makes him Pict or Attacotti.”
“Pict.” The prisoner spat on the floor with disgust. He pointed to himself. “Attacotti.”
Titus smirked. “Well that settles that. Who do we have who can speak Attacotti language?”
The decanus grimaced. “We need to find someone.”
Titus scowled, blaming himself for his lack of interpreters. He held up one of the silver coins. “Where did you get this?”
The prisoner’s lips thinned.
Titus nodded at the decanus who swung back his arm and slammed two lashes into the bloodied flesh of the miserable wretch.
Titus clenched his jaw. “Where. Did. You. Get. This?”
Two more lashes splattered across the barbarian’s bare shoulder. Trembling with staccato breath, he hunched over and cowered. “Jo-si-as.”
Titus looked from Alerio to the decanus. “Do you know of a Josias?”
They both shook their heads.
“’Tis a clue, and we will sleuth out this Josias.”
Titus leaned in. The sweat oozing from the man’s pores smelled acrid with fear. “How is Josias getting your money?”
The prisoner looked at him through pleading eyes. He clearly had no idea what Titus had asked.
Titus stood, and his gaze moved between Alerio and the decanus. “Take him to the gaol. I want a guard posted outside his cell. If he speaks, I want to hear of it.”
Titus plodded back to his chamber. He had two threads of information. The ruffians who were raiding his forts were Attacotti. He remembered Valeria had said they were ruthless savages. They were being paid by someone named Josias—a Roman name. Is this man the person ordering the raids, or is he a paid mercenary?
****
It was early June when Colin again rode through the Vindolanda gates. Titus was no closer to finding Josias, but the raids had ceased—at least for the time being.
The Gale marched into the principia and held out a scroll. “From King Taran. He didna need his wife to write on his behalf.”
Titus arched an eyebrow and ran his thumb under the wax seal. “An educated barbarian?” He turned his attention to the missive.
Centurion,
I agree to your proposed meeting, five days hence. Travel with the Gale and no others to the ruins of the Antonine Wall at the edge of Gododdin. The lady, Elspeth, shall be with us. I trust you will keep your word.
Taran, son of Brude, Chieftain of Gododdin, King of the Picts
Titus marveled at the lengthy title of the savage—even longer than his own. He rewound the scroll. “Do you know where the Antonine Wall meets Gododdin?”
Colin nodded once. “Aye.”
“Then you shall lead us. How long will it take to ride?”
“Two days, mayhap three.”
“Very well.” Titus pointed the scroll under the Gale’s nose. “We leave at dawn.”
Chapter Fourteen
There wasn’t much left of the two-hundred-year-old wooden wall. What Titus could make out were craggy charred remains that sprung up across the hilly lea, mostly covered by twisting green vines and briers. Colin led him to an erect Pictish stone standing about eight feet tall. On the top was carved a sign like the Celtic designs on the faces of the Picts, this one looking like a seabeast and dagger. Under it was a Z-rod over a shield, and the carving beneath depicted the story of battle.
The Gale pointed to the giant standing rock. “This Pictish stone marks the edge of Gododdin.”
Titus tugged on the lead he had tied to his saddle and pulled Tessie beside Petronius. He hoped returning Elspeth’s horse would help soften the rift between them. He dismounted and ran his fingers along the etched battle scene in the rock. Judging by the worn edges, the stone may have stood for a millennium or more. A race that will not be conquered.
Stepping beside him, Colin tapped his arm and pointed up the nearby hill.
Titus passed the reins to Colin. His hand instinctively grasped the hilt of his sword as every muscle in his body made ready for battle. Picts lined the hill clad in iron breastplates and helmets. In the center was an imposing warrior, larger than the others, who sat atop a black stallion and held a sword in his hand. Titus panned the crest of the hill and estimated fifty warriors, some with arrows trained on his heart.
The large Pict warrior rode his mount forward, followed by another. Titus chose not to draw his weapon and wiped his sweaty palms on his doublet. As the Pict approached, Titus eyed the Celtic tattoo swirling blue on his cheek. It entwined down the man’s neck and under the laces of his linen shirt. At ten paces, the Pict’s blue eyes cut through him with an air of command.
This must be King Taran, son of…whomever.
The king stopped his mount and sheathed his sword. “Ye’re wise to leave yer weapon in its scabbard.” He jumped down from his horse and removed his helmet. A mop of fiery red hair fell to his shoulders. “I’m Taran, son of Brude, chieftain of this land.” A giant among men, he could have been nearly a head taller than Titus.
The other man also dismounted. He stood eye to eye with Titus, but had leaner muscle and bone. “Taran is King of the Picts, the fiercest race in all of Britannia.” He too removed his helmet, revealing the Celtic patterns upon his face.
Taran gestured toward the other man. “This is Greum, son of Ewen and brother of Elspeth.”
Titus raised his eyebrows with a slight bow. “I am Titus Augusts Romulus, Primus Pilus Centurion at your service.” He turned to Colin and gestured toward Tessie. “We recovered the lady’s horse, and I have brought it for her.”
Taran nodded. “Many thanks. I ken she has sorely missed the mare.”
Titus’s gaze strayed to an archer. Icy bumps rose across his skin. He could pick Elspeth from the line of warriors even before she removed her helmet. He drew in a ragged breath when she pulled the helm off and shook out her long, coppery tresses. The wind whisked her hair aside, and it fluttered like the shimmering of a mirror reflecting the sun. Elspeth gave him a single nod in thanks.
Titus forced his gaze to return to the king. “Your wife spoke of a treaty between the Romans and Picts.”
The king’s eyes narrowed. “Aye. We have no cause to fight if ye keep Roman soldiers off Pict lands.”
“I have no orders to conquer the north. Emperor Hadrian drew the borders of the Roman Empire, and set they shall stay.”
“Aside from the Roman foray to the Antonine Wall.” Taran pointed toward the ruins. “It cuts through Gododdin.”
“A mistake in history, one from which we can learn.”
With a deep exhale, the king’s shoulders relaxed. “Me sentries report of raids along Hadrian’s Wall. They tell me ye’re blaming the Picts.”
Titus liked it when negotiations proceeded without bravado, and he suspected the king was the same. “We have recently intercepted one of the pillagers. He speaks no language we can discern. He identified himself as Attacotti and indicated his orders come from a man named Josias. Have you heard of this man?”
“Nay, but having his name is a start.”
Colin stepped alongside Titus. “I recall a Josias. He was the decanus at Fort Chesters before the conspiracy. I assumed him dead like the others.”
“Could be a piss-swilling rogue deserter,” Elspeth’s brother said, looking at Taran. “There were plenty of them mulling about.”
Titus’s eyes strayed up the hill. Elspeth watched with her back erect, her bow loaded but lowered beside her. She appeared both powerful and vulnerable. Though she was tall, her female form was slighter, more fragile than those of her male counterparts. ’Tis a good thing she’s an archer. Hand-to-hand warfare is not for one as delicate as she.
“I offer up a Pict spy in the quest to find this Josias,” Taran said, drawing Titus’s attention back to the matter at hand. “Finding the traitor will clear the Pict name and further strengthen our petition for peace.”
Titus considered this. The indigenous knew the land far better than the legi
onaries he had marched from Hispania. Under normal circumstances, he should enlist them as auxiliaries, but there was no way he would secure their loyalty for Rome—he’d learned as much from Elspeth. Picts did not consider themselves under Roman rule. A treaty between nations would be the only option. “I agree that stopping these raids will help us bring about peace. But Roman soldiers are not always received well with the indigenous. Would your spy be open to reporting to me?”
“He would work directly with you at Vindolanda to ensure our interests are served.”
Horse hooves skittered down the hill. Titus’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest when Elspeth reined her mount beside Taran. “I shall return to Vindolanda.”
“No!” Greum grasped her bridle. “They’ll burn ye.”
“I can talk to the Attacotti. The bleeding bastard will most likely reveal more to a woman. And I ken his speech.”
She can converse with the Attacotti? Titus’s tongue stuck to the roof of his arid mouth.
Greum shook his head. “I will not—”
Titus sliced his hand through the air. “Elspeth can return without fear of the stake.” Leaning forward, Titus seized his opportunity. “I will send a missive to Theodosius indicating my reasoning on the matter. As an interpreter, she can indeed perform a valued service to Rome.”
Elspeth eyed her brother and then Taran. “No other warrior has my gift of language.”
Taran nodded to Greum. “Her reasoning is sound.”
Greum rubbed his palm along the hilt of his sword and growled. “If one thread of harm comes to her, I will visit ye in the night and slit yer throat while ye lie sleeping.”
Titus regarded the other man with a deadpan stare. “I will insure her safety, unless she disobeys a direct order.” Titus raised his brows at Elspeth.
She claimed his heart with her cheeky, dimpled grin, but she didn’t smile at him for long. She hopped off her mount and ran to Tessie, sliding her hands across the mare’s coat. “Och, ’tis good to see ye.”
Titus swiped a hand down his smile. His idea to bring the mare was definitely a start to his offering of peace.
