On Hadrian's Secret Service

by Gavin Chappell

  Scowling, Flaminius gave a bad tempered summary of events. It had been an adventure, and now he was going to have to file it as a report. The monotony brought him back to earth with a resounding bump.

  When he had finished Probus grimaced. ‘I only wish my own efforts had been so successful.’

  Flaminius went cold. Had the druids been stirring up trouble? ‘Problems?’ he asked nervously.

  Probus grunted. ‘Making peace between the Selgovae and the Carvetti is vital to our continued presence in these parts. But they have too many flashpoints. The Selgovae are culturally hunters, they pride themselves in it, and as you say they consider all animals held in common, including herds. Including herds the Carvetti consider to be their own. The Carvetti only raid the Selgovae cattle in retaliation for Selgovae raids, the Selgovae hunt the Carvettian cattle because they think it is their divine right, a sacrament to Cernunnos, the horned god of hunters.

  ‘The Carvetti do not believe any of this. They think their cattle are their own property, as any Roman farmer would. They are outraged by the constant thefts—as they see them—perpetrated by the Selgovae. I have explained to the Selgovae how the Carvetti see things, but they in turn were outraged by the Carvettian view. How could they possibly believe that they can own animals, when they are the property of the god Cernunnos alone, which he deigns to share with deserving humanity out of his own bounty?

  ‘The Carvetti have thrown out all the druids, but they linger in Selgovae lands and further north, although no one seems absolutely certain just who is a druid. It’s very convenient for the Selgovae to take that attitude, but it’s uncivilised. We must stamp it out.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s difficult. Very difficult. But they won’t accept Roman ways until they have turned their back on this druidic superstition. As long as they are willing to believe in druidry they remain aligned to the Caledonians. Yet if we go against their beliefs, it will antagonise them, and that will play into the hands of Tigernos and his spies, who are all druids, as far as I can understand.’ He scowled. ‘I’m hoping that we can persuade both tribes to come to terms, but it seems it will be a long hard struggle.’

  ‘We can’t go back to fighting them,’ Flaminius complained. He couldn’t face Ivocatos or his friends on the field of battle.

  ‘We can’t?’ asked Hrodmar. The auxiliary had listened in uncharacteristic silence, but now he was moved to speak.

  ‘After all the hospitality they’ve extended to us…!’

  Hrodmar scowled. ‘By birth I’m a barbarian myself, you understand. But I can see that belonging to your empire is better than scrabbling for life as an isolated tribe.’

  ‘As far as you’re concerned, tribune, it’s academic anyway,’ Probus went on carelessly. ‘Orders are that I return to Eboracum. I want you to come with me. We set out tomorrow morning.’ He sipped at his wine and noted the tribune’s doleful expression. ‘You want to stay with these barbarians?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Flaminius told him. Technically he outranked the centurion, and it should be Probus calling him sir, but that never felt right. No shame in it, even Falco seemed to defer to the commissary centurion. After all, he was an imperial agent. ‘I’ve gathered a lot of information. And I’ve made…’ He paused and shrugged, ‘… a lot of friends, sir.’

  ‘Friends, eh? Oh, I see what you mean, contacts among the enemy. Good work, but there are more pressing matters. I reckon you are the right man for the job.’

  ‘Job, sir?’

  ‘The provincial governor is riding north into misty Caledonia with three cohorts of the Ninth Legion. I’m going to meet him at Corstopitum[12] and go with him—in a commissary capacity, of course.’ He winked. ‘I could do with an aide, skilled in… commissary matters. Interested?’

  Flaminius was astounded, but he couldn’t find any words to express himself with.

  ‘I take it you are, then,’ Probus added. ‘I’m hoping to gather intelligence, of course. No cloak and dagger melodrama involved, I’ll just be keeping eyes and ears open, and I want you to do the same. We’ve had reports from Caledonia, of course, in earlier times, but nothing very clear. It was the work of soldiers, not agents such as you and me, who gathered very little other than enemies.

  ‘I really should bring an experienced agent with me, but there aren’t any others available in this province. You’re pretty useful, it seems to me, for a young lad. The experience could do you a lot of good if you decided to follow a career in the Commissary. You’ll be on the provincial governor’s staff, with all that wine and good cooking—as far as is possible in Caledonia—and quite possibly you’ll be transferred back to Rome at the end of the mission, rather than spending more time in Britain. What do you think?’

  ‘Yes sir!’ Flaminius said eagerly.

  Probus grunted. ‘But don’t think it’s all going to be luxury. You’ll have a lot of hard work to do. This is a unique opportunity, and very important. We need to get to the bottom of what’s going on in Caledonia. I’ll be sure to work you like a slave, don’t worry about that. It’ll be hard, dull work, unless things go wrong—in which case you could end up very dead, probably after some pretty unpleasant torture. I shouldn’t think King Brennos has any of the provincial governor’s qualms. Give it some thought.’

  Flaminius did not. The only thing that bothered him was the possibility of never seeing Drustica again. But of course there were other girls—and most of them painted themselves with cosmetics, not woad. One of the latter, he seemed to recall, was on the provincial governor’s staff.

  ‘I’m coming with you, sir,’ he said.

  —9—

  The Via Caledonia[13]

  Accompanied by auxiliary horsemen, three cohorts of the Ninth Legion marched north, their sandaled feet taking them over the windswept hills and moors, further and further beyond the empire, following the old Roman roads that had been constructed by the legions when Agricola conquered the area. In the relatively short space of time since the Emperor Trajan withdrew his troops to fight on other frontiers, and the rule of Rome had retreated to Brigantia and further south, the roads had fallen into disuse and disrepair. It seemed that the local tribes, the Selgovae and the Votadini and those further north, avoided the roads out of some kind of superstitious dread.

  Flaminius had already seen much of this during his forays into Selgovian territory, but the disrepair grew significantly worse the further north he rode accompanying the provincial governor’s staff officers. At times the road almost vanished into cold, sucking bogs. Often the legionaries had to wade through mud, and when the column was slowed Flaminius experienced some particularly tense moments. Although the provincial governor’s visit to the Caledonian kingdom had been agreed upon with the rulers, there was no guarantee that they would not be attacked by raiders outside King Brennos’ influence. For all anyone knew, the whole expedition could be a trap.

  In places they passed the burnt out ruins of old forts and signal towers, reminiscent of the derelict fortress that Flaminius had found at Trimontium. The Britons had been swift to attack these relics of Rome once they had fallen beyond the narrowing margins of the empire.

  It seemed that Rome had passed its noon of glory, that lesser men ruled and fought. Where once the Caesars had pushed back the boundaries of civilisation, barbarism was creeping back in, taking advantage of the increasing weakness of the empire.

  And yet these rolling, uncultivated moorlands possessed a kind of savage beauty, much like the mountains that marched along the northern horizon. The people who sometimes watched their passage from the rocky outcrops above the lost road were tall, rangy, gangling redheads—a different people, it seemed, from the Britons further south. These Caledonians were a race apart, a savage, primal people from some age of legend predating the beginnings of civilisation.

  At least they made no attempt to attack. King Brennos’ rule over his people might be shaky by Roman standards, but it seemed that word had gone out that the foreign men in the lobster a
rmour should go unharmed. Of course, it would be futile for these few herdsmen to fling themselves at the marching might of Rome, but Flaminius was afraid that the word would go out through the heather, that the clans would gather, that woad painted warriors would attack the legionary cohorts at some narrow rocky pass or other vulnerable point, and put them all to the sword. That the Ninth Legion would never return from the northern mists.

  Despite the mountains on the northern and western horizons, the land that the legionaries marched through was flat and fertile and green, well-watered with silvery rivers, swathed with trees, a home to farms and smallholdings. Flaminius had thought that all Caledonia was a land of heather and rock, but as the cohorts penetrated further into the kingdom, marching ever north towards Pinnata Castra[14], the abandoned fortress Agricola had established on the margins of the Caledonian heartland, he saw that the strength of the northern people did not lie only in desperation. As well as flocks and herds, they had some forms of agriculture. If an invader seized this coastal plain, they would have a chance to starve the Caledonians out of their mountains.

  One evening Falco and Centurion Probus sat together talking into the night. Falco invited the commissary centurion to his tent and they ate well, courtesy of Falco’s excellent cook, and drank vintage Falernian wine. The two men had developed a good working relationship—despite the strange deference Falco showed to this non-commissioned officer, due to his ambiguous status as a secret service operative—and yet nothing more.

  The food was excellent, even by the provincial governor’s standards, and all the more so for Probus, accustomed to much the same nutritious stodge as the men. As for Falco’s wines, they were first rate, though the provincial governor grumbled that they had not travelled well.

  The tent walls shuddered in the biting Caledonian wind, and from outside, from out of that dark Stygian night, drifted the clank of armour as patrolling legionaries passed. There was a distant, muffled exchange of passwords. Within the tent, the brazier kept the place warm, while the exquisitely fashioned lamps ensured that it remained as light as day, and the air hung with a discreet spicy scent.

  After the Spartan rigours of camp and the march, the provincial governor’s luxuries came as a welcome change to Probus, though he told himself he despised them.

  ‘So you’re from Pannonia[15], are you?’ Falco said. ‘I was in Moesia before I was sent to Britain, not far down the Danube from your homeland. Of course, Dacia’s the real frontier now, but your people must have been hardy to settle on the limits of the empire.’

  ‘Provincials, originally,’ Probus replied dismissively. ‘Gaulish farmers for the most part, but my great grandfather joined the auxiliaries, receiving Roman citizenship and a farm in Pannonia when he was demobbed. There’s not much society in Pannonia, not of the kind you’re accustomed to, senator. Only the provincial governor up in Carnuntum, and his cronies. Otherwise it’s Roman colonists, and of course the locals, folk not unlike the Britons in many ways, but softer. They’ve been civilised for much longer. Debilitated. Like a lot of the Gauls, for that matter.’

  ‘Hence your unswerving loyalty to the emperor,’ Falco observed. ‘Yes, that’s understandable, given your background but, by Jove, it’s a narrow view. You should open your eye—and open your mind to other alternatives.’

  ‘What, hide behind your walls,’ Probus suggested, ‘seizing the day and doling out bread and circuses to keep the plebs happy while pretending there are no barbarians at the gate? Sardanapalus did that, but the Assyrians came down like the wolf on the fold in the end.’

  ‘You’re confused,’ the provincial governor said. He gave the laugh of a man who had received a first rate education from the best of tutors, not one who had picked up what culture he could find whenever he felt a lack in his knowledge. ‘Sardanapalus was an Assyrian. It was the Medes and Persians who overran his empire while he hunted beasts, oblivious in his park in Nineveh. All the same, I see your point…’

  Probus flushed. ‘My duty is to hold back the barbarians, not to lecture on ancient history. My wife and child live in Pannonia, not far from the frontier.’

  ‘No, centurion, your duty is to ensure the barbarians don’t need to be held back.’

  Probus laughed humourlessly. ‘Fine, as long as the barbarians agree with you.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t they?’ Falco asked. ‘The Caledonians have got their country, we’ve got ours. They don’t want us to invade them, to carry out reprisals, we don’t want them to invade our lands. Peace is in the best interests of both Roman and barbarian, on all frontiers. It doesn’t matter who started it, whether we invaded their lands or they attacked our merchants,’ he added wearily. ‘That kind of viewpoint is just plain childish. It’s the bloodfeud writ large, not the justice one should anticipate from a civilised society. Rome’s empire grew and grew, higgledy-piggledy, a series of reactions to events, as we got drawn into situations that on the whole we’d rather not enter. One province was left to us by its last king in his will! Before we knew it, we were masters of the Mediterranean and rapidly expanding.

  ‘But what do we get for our effort? More and more troubles. We don’t need any more empire. Britain is a running sore, because we’re not willing to commit enough troops to subdue her completely and yet we refuse to run away in shame at our inability to conquer her. The new emperor withdrew from Mesopotamia, that neverending mess, and although I don’t know that I agree with all his policies I will say that at least he knew when he was beat. Better to accept defeat, draw a mark in the sand—or the mud, in these parts—than to allow conflicts to escalate to nobody’s benefit.’

  ‘This is hardly the first time I’ve heard such nonsense,’ Probus grumbled. ‘People look at the way Alexander’s empire fell, the Assyrians and Babylonians, the Persians. They say our time has come and gone too. We’re no longer expanding. We’re overstretched. Dacia was a step too far, Mesopotamia was the tipping point. We’re not the men our fathers were. The barbarians are strong and virile, and they will sweep away decadent old Rome…’

  Falco shook his head. ‘The barbarians don’t have it in them to conquer the empire, they’re too divided. Maybe the Parthians could have done it once, but we tore the heart out of them in the last war, even if we couldn’t hold on to Mesopotamia. Alexander couldn’t rule the entire world, and nor can we, but we’ve lasted a lot longer than that pederast of a Macedonian bandit ever could. Right now, we’re consolidating our borders, we’re strengthening what empire we have rather than expanding indefinitely. The barbarians on the borders can surely live with that! We no longer threaten them.’

  ‘I don’t imagine the Caledonians want to be like us,’ Probus said. ‘They don’t want a world empire. They simply want more land and more influence further south. Our presence threatens their security. You’ve seen these bogs and moors. You’ve seen the mountains ahead of us when we’re on the march. Who would be content with that when they know that fertile land lies to the south? At the very least they intend to balance things out by raiding, carrying off what wealth they can win by their valour. But with their druid connections, they are strong enough to influence events, to pull strings, more dangerously, in areas closer to the empire, if not within the empire itself. That’s as far as I understand it from the Caledonians and other Britons I’ve spoken with. I hope to become clearer about the situation during our time here…’

  ‘I hope you do,’ said Falco. ‘The information would be fascinating. On the condition that you don’t resort to underhand tactics. If I find you have been making trouble during our stay, centurion, it’ll be the worse for you.’

  Probus was unnerved by the abrupt change in the provincial governor’s tone. Maybe Quintus Sosius Falco wasn’t simply the over privileged weakling, reliant on his cooks and his concubines and his luxuries, that he seemed to be.

  ‘Jupiter’s balls! The Caledonians aren’t interfering in Selgovian affairs because they want to protect them from other tribes. Those charioteers who’ve been s
een with the Selgovians aren’t just young men off on a jolly adventure before they settle down. The Caledonians quite definitely are up to something! I don’t even think their spies in the empire know the exact plans, not the ones I’ve interrogated. No doubt it’s only known by the highest of archdruids and the king himself. But they know alright. Oho, they know.’

  ‘A great raid on Roman lands?’

  ‘No, I think that the Caledonians see that we have weakened our forces in Britain and they intend to snatch the lands that we can’t control, to give themselves a more secure border with the empire. Presumably they think they have sufficient strength to face up to a legion or two.’

  ‘They must think Rome is willing to give up its land here as it has done in Mesopotamia. It’s strange but true how quickly news travels. The Caledonians must have their ears open in the empire, at least in Britain. Maybe talk of the Emperor Hadrian’s retreat has reached them… All this troublemaking with the Selgovians is certainly leading up to something.’

  ‘That’s the idea I’m working with… But…’

  Falco nodded decisively. ‘I intend to make it clear to them that their plans are not going to work. Not an official warning, of course. If we can find who is… reasonable among them… we can speak with those parties. Cooperate with them. Aid them in their struggle with the warmongers. Give them a plan they can work with, where both sides will benefit.’

  But he looked away from Probus as he said this.

  Medea had poured herself a goblet of wine and now she sat on a stool, head turned away, listening with a shudder to the howl of the wind from outside. Through the half open tent flap, the stars shone, brighter and clearer out here in the barbarian wastelands than they were in the empire, even more so than in Selgovian lands, it seemed to Flaminius, and the wind was keener.

  The country was savage yet beautiful, rather like Drustica in that respect, but Flaminius thinking more of the tame beauty who sat across the table.